


Tintin and Alph-Art

by the_kav



Category: Tintin
Genre: Action/Adventure, Murder, Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-21
Updated: 2011-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-27 17:28:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 32,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_kav/pseuds/the_kav
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alph-Art is, of course, the final, unfinished Tintin book. This is my ending to it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A dream has the power to poison sleep - Percy Bysshe Shelly

The road from Moulinsart village was thin and winding, and lined with trees the closer it drew to the manor house. It was peaceful and remote, passing by a few houses that were hidden from the road by high hedges, and rarely busy. In winter, it was slippery and some of the corners could be treacherous, but in the summer it was a beautiful walk – shaded and cool in parts, warm and joyous in others.

This morning it was peaceful, and though it was still relatively early in the morning it was beginning to heat up. It would be another wonderful summer's day in this small corner of Belgium.

Most of the windows in the manor were thrown open to the early morning heat. In the distance, a sheep bawled happily and the songbirds called to one another from the tops of the trees. The park stretched from the front of the property; curled around one side of the manor, and sprawled across the back fields and meadows.

A single woodpecker swooped down from the sky and landed on a small sycamore that grew at the front of the manor house. It tilted its head to one side as it stared at the bark of the young tree. It hopped closer to the trunk, considered its options, and began to hammer furiously, sending a sharp  _rap-tap_  through the still air.

The sound woke Captain Haddock up. Yawning, he turned over on to his back and stretched luxuriously. After a short moment, he realised that the  _rap-tapping_  had continued.

"Who is it?" he called sleepily, blinking at the light that flooded through the open window. Dust motes drifted lazily in the shafts of bright light.

"It is Nester, sir, with your breakfast." The familiar voice of the manor's butler made the Captain's stomach wake up. It growled and he grinned: he always had an apatite first thing in the morning.

"Come in," he said.

The door burst open and Bianca Castafiore walked in, panache radiating from her stylish form. The Captain recoiled, dragging his blankets up around his chin and clamping down on the scream that was trying to fight its way out of his mouth. Instead, he managed a high-pitched keen that escaped through his gritted teeth. "Thundering typhoons! Wh… what?" he asked weakly.

"Good morning, my dear friend!" the large woman crooned. She was, he decided, too  _loud_  for mornings. "I have brought your medicine!" She waved a bottle of Loch Lomond at him as she approached. He stared at it warily.

"I can't drink that," he protested. "Blistering barnacles, woman, you know I can't drink whisky any more!" An unknown experiment carried out on his unsuspecting person had rendered him unable to stomach his favourite poison. The summer was going to slip by without Calculus finding a cure for it, he just  _knew_  that it would, and one of his favourite past-times was sitting on the back veranda in the warm summer evenings, watching the sun set with a glass of whisky. Pain in the asses, always thinking about his welfare. To the devil with them!

"Now now," La Castafiore said. She was so close to him they were practically nose to nose. "You must take your medicine, like a good boy!" Her face started to twist and mutate before his very eyes. The nose became longer, the eyes narrowed and glared at him menacingly, and her teeth were  _sharper_. As he watched, her perfectly coiffured hair stiffened like the spines of a porcupine, and grew up into feathers, turning her into some kind of demonic bird. "Take your medicine!" she screamed at him, her voice heavy like a man's.

The Captain thrashed and screamed, trying to fight her off. Clucking bells, but she was strong! His feet kicked uselessly, trapped in the blankets that had somehow managed to wrap themselves around his body. "Tintin!" he shrieked. "Help me!"

In the bedroom down the hall, Snowy woke up. He had been sleeping on the chair in front of the window, enjoying the cooler air, but now he was bristling and barking loudly. Tintin sat up and blinked the sleep from his eyes. "Hah?" he said stupidly. Then he heard the frantic cries ( _"Away, ostragoth! Get back, coelacanth!")_  and jumped out of bed, tripping over a slipper. He kicked it away, and it bounced off Snowy, who was now at the closed door, barking shrilly. He yelped as the slipper collided with him, but it was more from fear than anything else, judging by the Look he sent his master. Tintin cursed quietly in French and wrenched the door open, tearing after the dog towards the Captain's bedroom. He went in and saw the Captain still sleeping – clearly having some sort of nightmare – and thrashing about in the bed. He went to his friend and tried to shake him awake, and ended up getting a smack in the face for his trouble. He cursed again and tried a different tactic, grabbing the Captain's left foot and shaking it until the man awoke.

The Captain sat up with a final, strangled yell. Catching sight of Tintin, he sagged a little, rubbing his face with his hands. "Oh, blistering barnacles, what a nightmare!" he said with a shudder.

"Nightmare?" Tintin raised one eyebrow. Now the initial shock had worn off, he could see the humour in the situation. Even though his cheek stung from the Captain's hand.

"It was horrible," the Captain said in a hollow voice. "The horror…"

"What was it?" Tintin struggled to keep his smile hidden.

"Bianca Castafiore. Here. In my room."

Tintin quickly pressed his hand against his mouth to suppress a laugh. "That's it?" he asked. "That's all?"

"No, it was… it was  _evil._ " The Captain shuddered again. "She came in, bossy as ever – maybe even more bossy than usual – and tried to force-feed me whisky. Then she turned into a bird."

Tintin laughed aloud. "I see," he said flippantly. "Plenty to scream about there."

"I didn't scream," the Captain insisted grumpily. Now that he was awake, with sunlight flooding the room, the dream seemed ridiculous. "I cried out. No, I, er, I called out. Manfully."

"Mm. I'm sure you did."

"You just misheard, that's all."

" _Bien sûr._ "

"Because you were asleep."

" _C'était un hurlement._ "

"Exactly."

" _Exactement._ "

The phone rang, interrupting the Captain from his scowling. Tintin picked it up and rattled off something in French. His mouth dropped open at the reply, and he quickly changed to English.

"Good morning, signora!" He cast an amazed look at the Captain, whose face drained of colour. "Yes, it's such a pleasure to hear from you again. How are you? … I see! You're in Brussels!"

"Sod this for a game of toy soldiers!" The Captain fought his way free of the blankets and got out of bed. Grabbing some clothes from the wardrobe, he fled the room, leaving Tintin to talk to the signora.

"I'm afraid you just missed him," Tintin said into the receiver, grinning at the Captain's flight. He was very manfully running away.

"Yes," she replied, her voice horribly clear through the phone line. "I've just arrived from Los Angeles. I'm here for two days – just a stop over, really. I'm planning on coming and embracing you; you and my brave Hassock. How is the dear man?"

"He's fine," Tintin lied. "I'm sure he'll be very sorry to have missed you…"

"Tomorrow then. Oh!" Against all odds, her voice actually  _rose_  with disappointment. "Tomorrow is impossible! I have a date with Endaddine."

"Endaddine?" Only half listening, Tintin had coaxed Snowy up onto the Captain's bed. Clamping the phone between his cheek and shoulder, he had covered Snowy with the blanket and was scratching at the lump, which growled happily and proceeded to dig furiously.

"Don't tell me you don't know Endaddine!" La Castafiore said shrilly. "The great, the one and only Endaddine Akass! He is a fascinating man, darling, absolutely fascinating. You simply must meet him. He's the most ma-a-arvellous mystic. He lays his hands on your head and you're magnetised for a year. In fact, I'm going to spend a few days with him, on Ischia. You absolutely have to meet him; he's inspired. But I must leave you now, I'm going window shopping. Lots of kisses to my dear Paddock!  _Ciao!_ "

Tintin put the phone down and let Snowy out. With a yawn, he padded back to his own room and got dressed. Once he was ready (and had finished messing about on Facebook – that Farmville was such a time-waster. He didn't know why anyone played. He only tended his own crops and visited his friends' farms. And sometimes did the quests. Most of the quests. And bought farm cash on his credit card. And set alarms on his phone to remind him when his shorter-lived crops were ready. But that was all. He certainly didn't PM people to ask them to send him stuff. Except for Chang. But Chang played too, so that was ok.) he headed down for breakfast.

The dining room was empty, and set for one. Nestor, the butler they had sort of… inherited when they got the manor, appeared with a fresh plate of croissants. "Where is the Captain?" Tintin asked as he helped himself to a cup of coffee. He never spoke French to Nester: the man was an old-school British butler. It had to be the Queen's own English or nothing at all.

"He went out, sir," Nester replied. "He seemed in a great hurry. He didn't even drink his tea. He said he wouldn't be back until this evening."

"Oh." Tintin shrugged. "Fine. I have the whole day to work on that stupid book…" That was becoming a pain in the backside too. He'd agreed to publish a collection of his earlier articles – some of the more exciting and sociologically-based stuff about gang culture in Paris, including drugs and prostitution – as a book, but most of the articles had been written when he was still working for  _The Daily Reporter_ , and they were getting into a snit about releasing their rights to his work without any money. They wanted something stupid, like 50% of the royalties, but he was sure  _another_  day of tedious negotiations with his agent and the editor would get them to see sense.

Although probably not.

He looked out of the window at the beautiful day, and wished he'd run off with the Captain.


	2. A guilty conscience needs to confess. A work of art is a confession – Albert Camus

It was only an hour's drive from Moulinsart to Brussels, and with car window rolled down and music blaring from the radio, it seemed shorter. There weren't even any traffic jams, but the Captain still parked a short walk away from the centre of the city, and strolled through the streets at his leisure. The pavement cafés were filled with well-to-do looking people – some in business suits and some in casual clothes – having their morning  _baignets_  and coffee, and more were walking to work or simply shopping. The roads were busy, but everything  _flowed_  with the easy grace of a city on a summer's day.

The Captain had lived in Belgium for over a decade. Mainly, he had lived in Antwerp, but since he'd lost his ship and couldn't be bothered getting another one, he'd relocated to Brussels, and then Moulinsart. He liked the pace of life and the fact that everyone spoke English, more or less, and he enjoyed the feel of the cities. They were almost old-world and had a certain charm that London and Liverpool lacked. Brussels suited him; from Manekkin Piss to La Grand Place, there was nowhere in the city that he didn't enjoy being. That his French wasn't strong, and that he didn't really speak much Dutch didn't bother him: he found that once you were a multi-millionaire everyone spoke your language.

Lost in the crowd, he allowed the city to direct his path.

Until he saw her.

 _Her! Here! Quel horreurs!_

Bianca Castafiore, complete with her dithering entourage and a toy poodle (tucked up under her arm, of course), was striding directly towards him. Catastrophe! Cataclysm! Calamity! What could he do? Where could he go?

He dove into the nearest shop, slamming the door behind him. He backed away from the glass door and hid behind a…  _thing_ , ignoring it to peer out the long, open shop-front to the crowd outside. The people were parting before La Diva, and he could see her perfectly sculpted blond hair bobbing over their heads as she walked. He was saved, for the time being.

" _Excusez-moi, monsieur?_ " He turned and saw a young girl, an assistant of some kind with long brown hair, glasses, and plain face. She wore a simple, but stylish, suit. " _Peux-je vous aider?_ "

" _Je suis... er, je passais juste à côté. Juste la pensée je jetterais un coup d'œil autour de._ " A reasonable thing to say: he was passing by and thought he'd have a quick look around. He grinned at her, aware that he probably looked like some sort of lunatic. He was, he realised, in an art gallery of some kind, surrounded by monstrous things made out of glass. The one he was hiding behind was a huge letter 'I'. Inside it, what looked to be a young woman floated, or was suspended, with her legs straight and her arms by her side. Her face was beautiful and serene, her throat marred with bruises that looked like hand-prints. "It's, er, very nice," he said at last.  _Thundering typhoons, what a monstrosity!_

"Ah, you are English," the assistant said. "Very good! This is "Inaaya". She is is the ninth in Ramó Nash's Alph-Art series."

"Alph-Art?" he asked weakly.

"Yes. Monsieur Nash is an artist from Flanders. He is considered by many to be a visionary of the modern art movement, blending the old with the new, and creating a cutting-edge"-

The door to the gallery opened, and La Castafiore breezed in.

"Bloody hell!" The Captain ducked and dashed away, heading to the back of the gallery and leaving the poor assistant in the middle of her spiel. He was  _sure_  he looked like a lunatic now, but he simply didn't care. He had to escape! His very life (or at least his good humour) depended on it.

There was a door. It was plain and brown and probably led to a broom closet. He opened it and ran inside.

It was not a broom closet: it was a long gallery lined with more of the same macbre sculptures as the one he had hidden behind outside. Two lines of girls encased in glass faced each other, their bodies bent to form the shape of a letter of the alphabet. Two men stood under a bare bulb, staring at the Captain. One of the men was tall and dark-haired, and wore an impecable business suit. The other was shorter, scruffier, and had strawberry blond hair. There was something vaguelly familiar about him.

"Can I help you?" the taller of the men asked politely. His accent wasn't French; he was English. Southern counties, the Captain guessed.

"Er, I was..." Looking for a bathroom? No, that's only acceptable in a pub really. "I'm disturbing you," he said, his mind frantically searching for a reason to his intruding on them. "I just wanted... to tell you... How facsinating I find your exhibition." He grinned, pleased at himself. Artists always swallowed that sort of fawning praise.

The scruffy little man raised an eyebrow. "You are interested in Alph-Art, sir?" he asked. His accent was clearly Flanders: he must be the artist, whats-his-name.

"Passionately," the Captain lied. "I'm absolutely wild about it."

"I am Ramó Nash, monsieur, and I thank you. In fact, I congratulate you. This is Monsieur Fourcart. He is the director of this gallery, and my manager. He keeps me in line."

The Captian smiled, and shook the artist's hand, but there was something about the man he didn't like. It was instinct. Nash's eyes were almost mocking. There was something dark hidden there, lurking and peering out.

"How do you do, Mr... Mr?" Fourcart shook the Captain's hand.

"Haddock," the Captain supplied. "Captain Haddock."

"Haddock? Not, by any chance, Tintin's dearest friend?" Fourcart asked.

"Yes." The Captain nodded. "For my sins."

"I see." Fourcart looked apraisingly at the Captain. "Perhaps I could meet him? He is, after all, a journalist, and this exhibit will be the first time the entire Alph-Art collection will be viewed publicly. It will be a big night."

The Captain doubted that Tintin would be interested: he wasn't that sort of journalist. He viewed society news warily, and refused to touch anything that involved a celebrity (unless it was actual news). On the other hand, the Captain couldn't really say no: these two men were the only things keeping him from Bianca Castafiore.

"Can't hurt," he said with a shrug. "Phone him first; the number is Moulinsart 621."

"I'm sure Tintin wouldn't be interested in such a thing," Nash said. The Captain was startled to see the look in the artist's eyes: it was almost hateful. He smiled at Fourcart, and it was the smile a cat might give a mouse. "He's more interested in real news, isn't he? Murders and things like that. Surely you're familiar with his work?"

"News is news," Fourcart replied warily. The Captain suddenly had the feeling that he had walked into another discussion entirely. There was something hidden beneath the two men's exchange, and he certainly wasn't included in it.

"Indeed it is," Nash agreed, "but some things are more news than others, if you'll forgive my bad English. Now, Tintin's friend," – he turned to the Captain and smiled that bleak smile again – "the exhibition isn't open to the public yet. Why don't I show you around the few pieces that are on display?"

"Yes, you do that," Fourcart murmured. He looked almost…  _shaken,_  the Captain thought. "I have business to attend to."

"Then you should attend to it. Come, Monsieur Haddock. Let me guide you through my work."

The Captain found himself being marched back towards the public gallery. Before he could protest he was through the plain brown door and back in the main room. Now that he looked clearly, several pieces, all of women suspended in those glass cases, were scattered around. Some of them were moulded into the shape of letters, others were posed carefully.

And Bianca Castafiore was standing under what was clearly the signature piece, the  _piece de resistance_. It was a tall, clear sculpture shaped like the tip of a glacier, almost seven foot high in total. Inside, a rather beautiful woman was suspended. Her face was serene, although bruising marred her check and blood was splattered on her left temple. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and the plaque embedded in the marble based proclaimed her "Mother".

"Ah! Dearest Bianca!" Nash exclaimed.

Bianca turned with a start, her face relaxing into a wide smile when she saw the artist. "Ramó! Darling!" She gripped his arms and they air-kissed one another on both cheeks. Bianca, the Captain saw, was delighted with meeting her friend. Nash looked amused and aloof, almost cruel; as though she was beneath him, a contemptuous thing. That was pretty much how the Captain felt, but he hoped he hid it better than this strange, unsettling man.

"Allow me to present an art lover," Nash was saying. He gestured to the Captain.

"Captain Stopcock!" Bianca cried. "You? Here? What a pleasure!"

The Captain did his best to hide his annoyance at being pulled into one of Bianca's noisy embraces. "Bianca!" he said. "You? Here? What a surprise."

"How delightful to find you here!" she cried, holding him at arms length. She did look genuinely delighted, he realised, unlike Nash, who looked pleased at the Captain's discomfort. "You're interested in Alph-Art! Well, I'd never have thought it possible! That a simple fisherman, without any education"-

"Merchant marine," the Captain corrected her, without hope of being heard. "And I have an O level in maths."

-"Should be mad about art! It's fantastic! It proves, Ramó, that your art, so simple and at the same time so rich, so noble yet so basic, can reach the whole world, from the most uncouth to the most… the most… Well, to people like us! Ah, Alph-Art! A genuine return to the sources, to the caves of Castamura. Er, of Lascaux. Well, in a nutshell, it is the art of our time, no? In it, we return to the origins of civilisation, don't we?"

"Do we?" the Captain asked uncertainly. He eyed "Mother" warily. "I mean… It's… y'know."

"Unsettling," Nash supplied. "It is meant to be."

"It looks real," the Captain said.

"It is."

The Captain looked at Nash sharply. "Beg pardon?"

"I have studied the human body extensively," Nash explained. There was something else in his face now, a certain arrogance. He gestured to the strange sculpture. "I build a skeleton from scratch, adding muscles and tendons and building up the body, until the skin is applied over it all. All made from synthetic materials, of course. Each hair on their heads is meticulously placed and styled. The clothes are custom made by myself. She is as real-looking as any person, I assure you. Everything is perfection, in my sculptures."

"It looks like a dead body," the Captain said. He was getting sick of this little man now.  _Blistering barnacles, what a creep. What a creepy little freak._

Nash and Bianca burst out laughing, sharing some private joke he wasn't a part of. "It's supposed to!" Bianca cried. "My dear Captain Ratflock! It is a searing indictment on how society treats women these days. We are driven by society's rules: we must look a certain way; we must dress a certain way; we must act a certain way. If we don't, we are considered 'inferior' or 'ugly', and cast aside. When we adorn ourselves with beautiful things, we are simply postponing the time when men will cast us aside anyway, because of age! These 'women' are supposed to remind us that beauty is fleeting and shallow! They are supposed to unsettle us, because they contain at their core a truth so devastating the world would rather not see it!"

"Oh," said the Captain.  _This is probably leading up to something about the size 0 debate._

"Look at her, Captain Kapock!" Bianca's arms swept wide to show all of Mother. "What strength! What nobility! A woman, raising children – a veritable bitch, birthing society – beaten and subdued by the society she strives to join! You feel better now that you've seen her, no?"

"Er… Um…"

Bianca hooked her hand into his arm and dragged him to another statue. This one was of two young women, their bodies arching backwards to join together, to form the letter 'O'. "This work here!" she cried. "A microcosm of the whole universe, from Alfa to Romeo… Fiat… Lancia… to Omega… No, wait, that's another make."

"Er…"

"Aah, you must have the 'K', no? For Kapok!" She gestured for Nash to join them. "Show him the 'K', for Kapok. He will buy it!"

"My name is Haddock," the Captain hissed.

"My goodness, what was I thinking? Show him 'A', for Addock!"

"Haddock is spelt with an 'H', signora."

"In that case, I have precisely what you need," Nash said suddenly. His eyes brightened, and he struggled to hide his grin. "Please, come with me." He led them into the back room, down along the rows of statues, until he reached one. It was of two young women – they looked as though they could be teenagers – with their bodies facing one another, their heads turned to observe the viewer with curiously saddened eyes. Their arms were stretched straight out, their hands clasped, and together their bodies formed the letter 'H'.

"Not just Alph-Art," Nash purred, "but Personalph-Art."

Bianca sighed in appreciation. "Inspired," she said wistfully. "Sublime. Marvellous. Transcendent! It is exactly what you need, my dear friend. You can't let it go: this piece was waiting for you!"

"Bianca is right, monsieur," said Nash. "Such a chance may never come your way again. I ask only that you allow me to display it here, when the exhibition begins."

"Of course he will!" Bianca declared. "There is no question of that! Captain Hassok, where is your cheque-book?"

It suddenly dawned on the Captain that he really had no choice in the matter. He pulled out his cheque-book and pen, and tried desperately not to think of how much money he was wasting on such a monstrosity. And he wished he'd ended up in a café instead of an art gallery: an iced bun was a lot nicer than a searing indictment about society. Cheaper, too.


	3. I went window shopping today! I bought four windows - Tommy Cooper

He slunk in to the manor, hoping against hope that nobody was home. After the gallery, he'd gone to the cinema and hidden there for awhile, ignoring the calls coming in on his mobile phone. Then the texts had started to come, and he'd read a few in the darkness while some rubbish about vampires and werewolves played out, unnoticed, on the big screen. His phone was on silent, so he wasn't disturbing anyone, but he was glad nobody could see how red his face was.

Mortification.

When Nestor had started to get frantic, he started to ignore his phone completely. He really didn't want to see what Tintin would send once he saw the sculpture which, according the texts, had already been delivered. That Ramó Nash must have brought the damned thing over himself, as soon as possible, to complete the Captain's rubbish day.

Nestor appeared. The Captain's day got a little bit more rubbish.

"Er, sir," said the butler.

"Don't start," the Captain snapped. He took off his cap and rubbed his hand through his messy, black hair. "Blistering barnacles, I know."

"Captain?" Tintin called from the nearest reception room. "Can you come here a moment?"

"Do I have to?" the Captain called back.

"No-o," Tintin said uncertainly, "but I'd really appreciate it."

He took a deep breath and went in.

It was there: his giant 'H'. For Hardsock, most probably.

Tintin was standing in front of it, his hands jammed into the pockets of his brown cords. Snowy was sniffing around it, unsure of what it was. Tintin looked at the Captain helplessly.

"It's art," the Captain said sourly. "It's a searing indictment."

"Is it?" Tintin asked.

"Yes."

"Of what?"

"Of how we treat women."

"Oh. Us specifically? Or 'us' in general?"

"In general. Y'know, society."

"Ah." Tintin nodded. Then he shook his head. "I still don't get it."

"It's Alph-Art. Personalph-Art. It's an 'H', for Haddock. Do you get it now?"

Tintin shrugged. "It's a bit… ugly, no? I mean…" He shrugged again, and then fell silent, staring at it. They looked at it. The Captain knew: it was horrible. As soon as the exhibition was over, he'd chuck it down in the cellars. Let it get lost down there with the rest of the junk.

"Who made it?" Tintin asked at last. Snowy had decided it was a tree, and tried to pee on it. Tintin hooshed him with his foot to stop him. The dog wuffed glumly and wandered off.

"Ramó Nash," the Captain said, glad to be back on firmer ground. "He's an artist out of Flanders. Do you know him?"

Tintin frowned. "Ramó Nash… The name certainly rings a bell with me, but I don't think I can place him."

"Speaking of him – horrible little man, by the way, very sinister – his manger, or agent, or whoever, wants a word with you."

"Oh?" Tintin perked up at this. "What's up?"

"There's some exhibition starting at a gallery in town. Fourcart, the man is called. I think the gallery is named the same. He wants publicity for it, I think. More of this trash, unfortunately." He gestured at the statue. "There's a whole alphabet of them."

"Bah. I don't deal with this sort of thing." Tintin screwed up his face distastefully. "This isn't real news. This distracts people from real news."

"Speaking of the news," the Captain said, "what time is it? Have I missed the headlines?"

"Not yet. TV's on though. I was watching  _Home and Away_  when Nestor insisted I come and do something about your 'H'." They wandered into the sitting room together, the Captain collapsing gratefully into his favourite chair. Tintin curled up on the sofa with Snowy, and changed the channel. The familiar refrain of the news came on, and the Captain was glad to let his mind wander for a few minutes.

"That's odd," Tintin said, jolting him out of his idle thoughts. The Captain frowned and concentrated on what was being said on the news.

"…An experienced yachtsman," the anchor-man was saying, "Monsieur Monastir left a small port in Sardinia three weeks ago. His yacht, the  _Emerald_ , has been found empty, drifting off the Corsican coast at Ajaccio, near the Sanguinaires islands. A length of rope was attached to the boat. Jacques Monastir was known world-wide as a respected art expert, and most of the great museums have called upon his expertise in the past. It seems probable that Monsieur Monastir decided to go for a swim, and for safety attached himself to the boat by a line. Then, somehow, disaster struck…"

The phone rang. Instinctively, and without taking his eyes from the television screen, Tintin reached out and grabbed the cordless extension. "Bonjour?" he said. Rolling his eyes, he switched to English. "Good evening, Monsieur Fourcart."

"Speaking of experts," the Captain muttered.

"Yes, this is Tintin," Tintin was saying. "I'm sorry, could you speak up? … What?" He frowned, and listened carefully to the receiver. "Gladly, if it's as good as you say. But monsieur, I must warn you now that I don't do society pages or celebrity news… I see. … I see. … Very well, tomorrow at six pm. Goodbye, monsieur." He hung up the phone and tossed it onto the empty seat beside him. "How very interesting," he said.

The Captain turned the television to mute, and looked at him. "What?"

"Your Monsieur Fourcart has no intention of seeking publicity. He said he has a sensational article for me."

"Probably the opening of that blasted exhibition." The Captain turned the sound back on, completely disinterested again. "He said that it was the first time the full collection was being shown. And Castafiore seemed to think the whole thing was to die for." He affected her Italian accent, and made his voice shrill. " _Aaah! My dear Captain Badrock! This is the cradle of civilization, no?_ "

"He told me to look up statistics for young people that go missing in Europe," Tintin said. He put Snowy down on the ground, and stood up.

"Where are you going?" the Captain asked. "Who went missing in Europe?"

"Lots of people go missing in Europe," Tintin said as he walked towards the door. He paused, his hand on the door handle, and looked back. "You know, there's a statistic that the percentage of people that disappear without a trace corresponds to the same statistic of animals that are eaten by predators in the wild. Granted, some disappear willingly, to escape debts or their enemies, and others fall through the cracks and end up homeless, or drug addicts, or forced into the sex trade. But the numbers of those that disappear and are never seen or heard from again are phenomenal."

The Captain knew of this statistic. It frightened him. It bothered him at nights, especially now that there was a teenager living in his house, under his care. It didn't help that he'd watched the movie  _Taken_  the night after Tintin had left to see a concert in Sweden with some friends, and decided to extend his over-night stay to include the rest of the long weekend. The Captain remembered that bank holiday as one of the most harrowing in his life, imagining all sorts of things happening to the happy, out-going, sixteen year old lad. The relief he'd felt when he'd gone to pick Tintin up from the airport at stupid o'clock that Tuesday morning had been astonishing.

"What's that got to do with art?" he asked gruffly.

Tintin shrugged. "I don't know. But hopefully Monsieur Fourcart can enlighten me tomorrow."


	4. News is what somebody somewhere wants to suppress; all the rest is advertising - Lord Northcliffe

Tintin settled himself on the sofa and waited. It was ten to six, according to his watch, and Monsieur Fourcart would be arriving soon. He flicked idly through the stations – the Captain had gone for a walk, taking Snowy with him to give Tintin some space – while he waited. There was nothing much on, except for an episode of  _The Simpsons_ , but it was a new one, and Tintin didn't like them much any more. They lacked something. They weren't as funny as the older episodes, in his opinion. He missed the edge that made the classic episodes truly brilliant.

He flicked around again.  _Mtv_  didn't seem to show music these days, only reality TV shows about meat-heads and air-heads. He missed the days of Eddie Temple-Morris and Davina McCall, back when she was cool.  _Mtv Hits_ was showing the chart show, but somehow Cher Lloyd was still in the top five, so he changed it before  _Swagger Jagger_ got stuck in his head again. It was annoyingly catchy.

Oh good! There was an episode of  _The Simpsons_  on. He watched for a few minutes before realising it was the same episode he had just turned off. He went back to flicking, until he found the repeat of  _Home and Away_  and started watching that.

He checked his watch: half past six. Monsieur Fourcart was late already, and Tintin had wasted forty minutes of his life on bad TV. At least  _Home and Away_ was on. He didn't follow the story much – he never really had the time to watch much television – but he still enjoyed speculating on how in the world Romeo passed for a high-school student. The guy that played him looked about thirty. His girlfriend was alright though. Tintin liked Indy. She had a huge rear end, although he was disappointed to see that these days it was hidden behind props whenever she was on-screen.

It finished. The news started. He watched it. When the weather forecast began, he heard the front door open. Moments later, Snowy rushed into the room, panting happily and wagging his tail, followed shortly by the Captain.

Tintin looked at his watch. It was half past seven. "I doubt Monsieur Fourcart will show up now," he mused. The Captain looked at him, surprised.

"You're still waiting? Thundering typhoons, it's a bit late now isn't it?"

"He must have forgotten our meeting," Tintin replied. He stretched, and poked at Snowy with the toe of his boot. The dog growled playfully and attacked his foot with gusto.

"Phone the gallery?" the Captain offered.

"I'll go and see him tomorrow," Tintin replied. "I have to go to Brussels anyway."

"Do you want me to drive you?" The Captain hated Tintin's motorbike. He especially hated how doctors called people that rode them 'organ donors'. He'd once read an article by Stephen Fry, about Fry's cousin in America, who was a doctor. It concerned a person that needed an organ donation, and a doctor had announced to them 'Good news, you'll have a new organ today!' When the patient had asked what time it would arrive, the doctor had looked out at the rainy street and said; 'Any time during the rush hour, I would assume!'

"No, I'll take my bike," Tintin replied.

"What do you have to do in Brussels?" The Captain settled himself into his favourite chair with a small groan. He'd noticed himself doing that recently: making noises when sitting down or standing up or leaning over. Another sign of age.

"I have to meet with someone from  _The Daily Reporter_."

"How's that going?"

"Not great. I'll know more after lunch tomorrow though."

"Good luck with that." The Captain tried to stay out of things like this: it wasn't his affair. It was rooted firmly in the category of 'Tintin's Job', and that didn't concern him. Not the business side at least, although he'd found himself stepping in whenever he felt the lad was getting taken advantage of. There'd been too much of that already, and it wasn't fair to bend him over a barrel simply because of his youth. It wasn't as though Tintin needed the money – he earned enough from his free-lance work, and he'd written a series of books published under his real name that were best-sellers, plus his share of Red Rackham's Treasure was sitting in a trust fund, maturing and waiting for him to turn eighteen – but it still rankled that unscrupulous types were still able to take advantage of the stupid decisions he'd made when he was a kid in Paris.

Sometimes, he despaired of the world, he really did. No wonder so many young people went missing in Europe: they were probably all working for  _The Daily Reporter._

xxx

They were sitting at breakfast when the newspaper arrived. They got everything delivered: a house full of men was a house that was strongly opposed to shopping. Snowy was the one that fetched it, holding it in his mouth and trotting proudly into the dining room, his head held high and a smug look directed at the cat.  _The cat doesn't do this,_  it seemed to say.  _The cat's useless. I'm far more important._

"What fresh disasters await us?" Tintin asked as he took the newspaper from the dog, and replaced it with half a sausage. He unrolled the paper, his jaw dropping when he saw the front page. "You won't believe it!" he cried.

"What?" the Captain continued smearing marmalade on his toast, only half listening.

"Monsieur Fourcart is dead!"

"You're  _kidding!_  Thundering typhoons! When did that happen?"

 

 **_FOURCART DIES_ **

**_ART WORLD MOURNS AGAIN_ **

_Yesterday, Jacques Monastir disappeared off the coast of Ajaccio, near the Sanguinaire Isles. Today, the renowned expert Henry Fourcart met his end in an_   
_accident. His car skidded on a bend, plunged into a dry riverbed and burst into flames. The doomed driver perished in the blaze._

 

"Very mysterious," Tintin said quietly. "He had something to tell me, and he dies too, like his unhappy colleague."

"Thundering typhoons." The Captain quickly read through the article. "Poor man. A chapter of accidents…"

"But what if they weren't accidents?"

"Oh, you! You see mysteries everywhere."

"Hmm. You're probably right, Captain. But even so, I think I'll think stop by the gallery today anyway."


	5. Drive-in banks were established so most of the cars today could see their real owners. – E. Joseph Cossman

Tintin parked his motorbike across the road from the gallery. The morning rush-hour traffic was clearing, the flow moving on to the centre of the city and the heart of Brussels. This was a fashionable street, with boutiques and chic wine-bars: part of the cultural revolution that had over-taken most European cities during the economic boom. Discrete smoking areas in the slender alleyways were festooned with lights and ironic posters, and beer gardens had suddenly sprouted leather armchairs, and couches and – in a disturbing trend that had taken over – beds, for some reason.

The outside of Fourcart's Gallery was pristine in its austerity. The long window – the glass sparkling – contained a few choice pieces of statuary and a couple of prints by the Masters. A clever mash-up of  _The Scream_ , with Bono as the Screamer, sat beside an armless Venus the Milo that wore a blindfold and a safety pin through her nose. Red paint had been splashed over her groin area in what was, Tintin was sure, an ironic statement about feminism, or something.

Modern art, he reflected, was crap.

What was wrong with a nice painting? He wasn't clueless about art – far from it: he had started out doubling as his own photographer, and had published two volumes of his own work to critical acclaim. But when had an unmade bed surpassed the killing fields as a statement about society? Perhaps he was just old-fashioned, but he saw more in his own work, and that of people like Annie Leibovitz and Simon Hoegsberg, than in most modern art. An image could invoke the senses, and a thousand different emotions. Modern art just made him confused.

There was a sign posted on the door. No food, no drink. He assumed this included pets too.

"You stay here, Snowy," he said to the dog. Snowy looked up at him and seemed to roll his eyes before parking his butt on the pavement, leaning against the brick wall beside the door. Tintin straightened his jacket – brown leather and old, but damned comfortable – and went inside.

He was met by a young woman, the assistant. Her brown hair was held back in a simple ponytail, and she wore thick-rimmed black glasses that looked fashionable on her. Her pleated skirt and simple blouse were black, as were her pumps. Her eyes behind the glasses were red: she had been crying recently.

"Hello," he said, with a warm smile. He was known for his smile, and he used it ruthlessly to disarm people and wrangle information from them. It was his best weapon.

"How do you do?" she asked, her own smile weak. "Can I help you?"

"I… er, it's like this: My name is Tintin. I'm a journalist. Monsieur Fourcart arranged a meeting with me but didn't show up for it. He said he had something interesting to tell me."

"Oh. It's probably about the upcoming show," she said sadly. "Poor Monsieur Fourcart: he and Monsieur Nash have been working together for many years. This was to be Ramo's triumph." She pulled a tissue out of her sleeve and pressed it against her nose. Fresh tears leaked from her eyes.

"No, he specifically said it wasn't anything to do with the show," Tintin replied slowly. He wondered how best to broach this subject with the assistant, who looked like she didn't need any more worries. "It was about missing people," he said at last.

She frowned at him, her sorrow forgotten in her confusion. "Missing people?"

"Specifically, people that disappear travelling through central Europe," he said helpfully.

"I have no idea," she replied, still mystified. "He's never – I mean, he  _had_  never – mentioned anything about that to me. Are you sure?"

"Positive," Tintin murmured. He looked around the gallery. Ramo Nash's 'triumphs' looked out of place in the stark design of the gallery.

"When was your meeting?" The assistant went to her desk – more of a counter, like the type one would see in a hair salon – and opened a thick, well-used A4 legal pad.

"Yesterday," Tintin replied, joining her. He leaned on the counter top and tried to discretely steal a look at the notepad. It seemed to be appointments for Fourcart's formerly busy schedule. "Yesterday evening, six o'clock," he clarified.

"Hmm.  _'6pm: interview with Le Soir'_. Is that your magazine?" she asked.

"No, I'm freelance." He reached over and took the book, spinning it on the counter until it faced him. Skimming it, he could see she was right: his scheduled meeting for yesterday evening was with Le Soir, a magazine Tintin had a little business with. The other appointments for the week were lunch dates and evening soirees with various culture magazines and newspapers.

"I'm sorry, sir, it must have slipped his mind," she said with a shrug as she retrieved the book.

 _Unless Fourcart had put it down as Le Soir, because he didn't want anyone to know he was meeting with me,_ Tintin thought to himself. "And you have no idea why he would want to see me?" he wondered aloud, not really holding out any hope for an answer.

"No, sir. I had no idea he was even meeting with you. He said nothing about it." She shrugged helplessly.

"It's just…" he paused and bit at his bottom lip, frowning. "I'm struck by the deaths – or at least, one death and one disappearance – one after the other, of two well-known art experts. It makes me wonder… Are they accidents?"

The girl blinked, her eyes wide and owlish. "Oh, sir! What on earth are you saying? Who could possibly want to get rid of Monsieur Fourcart? He hadn't got a single enemy. Honestly! He was one of the nicest men in the world!"

"Of course. What was he like as a driver? Was he careful? Forgive me, but did he like to have a glass or two, and perhaps drive?"

She raised her eyebrow at him in a way that spoke volumes. He was, he suspected, impugning her beloved boss's reputation. "Never!" she said forcefully. "He drank only water or Sani-Cola. As for his driving…" she paused and shrugged. "I always thought he was too careful. Sometimes, when he gave me a lift home after work, it took longer than the tram. He stuck to the speed limit and hated merging."

"What sort of car did he drive?" Tintin's mind was drifting, reaching out for every angle. He let it work like this: it got the job done. "Maybe there was something wrong with it…"

She shrugged again. "That would be a question for his garage," she replied. "I know his car was in for a servicing recently. Some little job or another…" She waved it away.

"Do you have the address of his mechanic?" he asked. He smiled at her again, and she found herself grinning back as she flipped through the appointment book. "Here it is," she said. She picked up a small post-it note and scribbled the address on it. "La Garage de l'Avenir at Leignault. Monsieur Fourcart has a house near there, on the outskirts."

Tintin took the card and slipped it in to pocket of his jacket. "Thank you, Miss… er, Miss?" He left the question hanging.

"Vandezande," she said, holding out her hand. He took it and they shook. "Martine Vandezande."

Tintin smiled again and left, taking one last look at the monstrosities of Ramo Nash.  _Creepy,_  he thought to himself. Outside, Snowy was still sitting beside the door. He whistled to the dog, crossed the road and got back on his bike. "Off to Leignault," he said aloud to Snowy as he put the dog back in the modified perch on the back of the bike. "Thirty kilometres away."

xxx

He found the garage quiet easily: it was on a long stretch of road just before the town, on the south of the river. Outside, two mechanics were looking at an old Mustang. One was slid halfway under the car while the other, an older man with a thick moustache, was under the bonnet.

"Monsieur Fleurotte?" Tintin asked as he approached the older mechanic.

"Yes?" the mechanic said, turning to him. "That's me." He cast his eye over Tintin's bike. "Not bad," he said speculatively. "Looking for an upgrade? I don't do many bikes, mind."

"No," Tintin replied. "I'm a journalist. I'm making some enquiries about the accident this morning. The one that killed Monsieur Fourcart."

"Last night," Fleurotte said quickly. "It happened last night."

Tintin frowned. "Really? It said this morning in the paper."

"Got that wrong. Get a lot of things wrong. Which paper do you work for?"

"I'm freelance. What do you know about the accident?"

"Tragic," said Fleurotte heavily. He wiped his hands absently on an oil-stained rag. "Look, I already told the police everything I know: Monsieur Fourcart was one of my oldest customers. He actually brought the car in a few days ago to have a small oil leak repaired. Nothing major: just a seal replacement job."

"And apart from that the car was fine?"

"Perfect condition: it was almost new. No, to my way of thinking, Monsieur Fourcart must have been taken ill. He knew the roads here like the back of his hand: he grew up in this town, and when he opened the gallery a few years back he moved back here. Didn't like the city."

"Where did the accident happen?" Tintin asked.

"The exact place? I can show you that on a map. It's three kilometres from here, between Leignault and Marmont. You'll know it when you see it: the parapet is smashed and the car is still in the River Douillette. It's stuck in there until the tide goes down and they can get a winch to it."

"Thank you very much, Monsieur Fleurotte." Tintin shook hands with the mechanic. "You've been a great help."

"No problem," Fleurotte replied. He picked up a wrench and shook it at the motorbike. "Careful with that. They're not the safest mode of transport. If you're looking for a car, keep me in mind. I can get you a nice little run-around."

"Thank you, I'll bare that in mind," Tintin said with a smile.  _When hell freezes over! I love my bike._

Tintin mounted his bike again and pulled away, heading towards Leignault. He'd need to go through the town to reach the bridge Fleurotte had spoken of. Behind him, a powerful black Mercedes pulled out of the lay-by and started to follow him.


	6. What the detective story is about, is not murder, but the restoration of order – P. D. James

The black Mercedes prowled the road behind the bike carefully, keeping it's distance at first and gaining ground gradually. They had their orders. Nash had mentioned the boy's name to their boss. The artist was worried that Tintin would be dragged into it, that he would discover what had been going on. What was still going on. The boss had smiled and nodded and told Nash to be calm, that if Fourcart didn't make the meeting with Tintin it would all go away. What was a journalist without a story?

Nash had been content with that, but the boss had known better. He had called the two men into his hotel suite and given them their orders: plant a bug and find out what was going on. Then, follow Tintin and discover what he was up to. If it looked like he was investigating, take him out. Make it quick and clean, and – above all – no witnesses.

"Now's our chance." The driver, a man in his late twenties with a crew-cut, sped up a little. The road was clear: it was just them and the motorbike now.

The passenger, a man named Grey, didn't like his current partner. Otis dressed like a common thug, while Grey preferred nice suits and overcoats. He looked like a business man, and a business man had no reason to be seen with a thug like Otis. "Do it," he murmured. He pulled a small handgun out of its shoulder holster, and caught Otis's worried glance.

"Don't worry about it," said Grey flippantly.

"I'm gonna hit him with a car," Otis said. "What do you need that for?"

"You ever seen a biker get hit by a car? It ain't pleasant and I don't like suffering. What? I'm a sensitive guy."

Otis doubted that. He knew that, for all his neatness and pride in dress, Grey was nothing more than a soldier for hire. He'd heard stories about Grey, and they weren't very pleasant. He rolled his eyes and put his foot down. Ahead of them, the bike crested the hill, and the figure on the back seemed to wave at someone. Cursing, Otis slowed as he realised two policemen were standing close to their car, a black and white Opel Astra. They waved back to Tintin, and ignored the Mercedes, which was now going the legal speed limit again.

They continued on, Otis cursing under his breath (another of Grey's reasons for hating him: the man swore like a sailor). A small van overtook from behind, and they pulled back until it passed the bike and shot off.

"This time," Grey said. "Get him now."

"Did you cut one?" Otis asked, his voice surprised.

"What?" Grey looked at him in genuine confusion. "Did I…? No! No, I didn't fart! What the hell?"

"Then what's that smell?"

Grey stopped and sniffed. It almost smelt like… like burning rubber…

With a loud pop one of the wheels of the Mercedes blew out. The car careened from side to side while Otis fought to keep it under control. Hands shaking slightly, he drove it to the side of the road and parked. Ahead of them, Tintin had turned at the noise, but continued on when he'd seen the car was all right. Now, he was gone from sight.

"Well done," said Grey.

"That's not my fault," Otis snapped.

"Go change the tyre. And try not to swear too much."

Otis changed the tyre, but swore quite a lot.

xxx

It took a few more minutes, but Tintin reached the scene of the accident. Like Fleurette said, he'd recognised it straight away. A short brick bridge spanned the width of the River Douilette. Close to the beginning of it, on the Leignault side, the wall had been reduced to rubble where Fourcart's car had struck it. The brickwork looked old – it was crumbling in parts – and it hadn't offered any real barrier between the car and the river. Below, the truck of the car was visible over the swirling, chopping water, but the rest was a submerged dark shadow, lurking on the bottom.

Tintin parked his bike and let Snowy down. The dog gambolled away, stopping to mark his scent on a nearby tree while Tintin went to the edge of the bridge. He poked the outside of the rubble and looked over.

"Crumbs! What a drop!" he exclaimed. The car had hit the bridge at some speed, and somehow Fourcart had lost control, hit the wall and hit the river. It was a very, very long way down, and even from here Tintin could see some fire damage on the car. The paint he could see was scorched.

Turning, he wandered over the road, examining it, but something made him frown. "No skid marks," he murmured. He squatted down and thought about it. You'd expect skid marks, he thought, if Fourcart had lost control of the car.

He jumped when Snowy started barking. The dog was standing in the middle of the road, before the bridge began, barking furiously. Standing up, Tintin made his way over.

Skid marks: clear as day on the road.

"That's odd," he said quietly. "This almost looks as though a second car cut in front of the first, and forced it to stop. And unless I'm mistaken, that's oil."

A large pool of oil, almost dried into the hard road, stared forlornly up at him.

But Monsieur Fleurotte said it was just a small leak. Unless… Unless the car was stalled for some time. But if someone forced Fourcart to stop, then it might actually be murder. How did the car burn in the water? So if this is murder, then maybe the other 'accident', to Monastir, was murder too.

Deep in thought, Tintin didn't notice the Mercedes. Otis's hands gripped the wheel tightly. "Got you now," he muttered. He was covered in oil and sweating from the tyre change. Grey hadn't bothered to help: he'd just leaned against the car and smoked a cigarette, silently watching as Otis worked.

"Don't bloody miss," Grey warned.

Otis swung the car, veering towards Tintin, who was standing near the side of the road, still thinking. Suddenly, a large blue people-carrier trundled over the bridge. It tooted it's horn, startling Tintin from his reverie. He looked up to see the driver of the people-carrier mouth the words; Look out! and felt a shocking breeze of wind as the Mercedes passed within inches of his back. He turned, wide-eyed, and watched the people-carrier tore off and the Mercedes screeched to a halt. The driver of the Mercedes was swearing an awful lot.

"What… what on earth?" Tintin watched, dumbfounded, as the driver, still swearing loudly, swung the car into reverse, and was rammed by a delivery truck that bore the legend Tuite Suite above the logo of a stylized armchair. "That's a bit dangerous!"

Otis continued swearing, but managed to start the car. He put his foot down and they shot away.

"Bloody maniacs!" The truck driver jumped down from the cab and surveyed the damage to the front grill. "They must be absolutely daft!"

"Needs his eyes testing," Tintin agreed.

"Here, what's this?" The truck driver bent down and started to pick up something that looked an awful lot like a hand gun.

"Leave it," Tintin said loudly. He looked to where the Mercedes had gone, but it had disappeared from sight. "Don't touch it: there's probably fingerprints." He pulled his jacket off, pulled off his blue hoody, and carefully wrapped the gun in it. "I'll take it to the police," he said, dropping it the storage of his bike. "First of all," he added, grabbing up Snowy and pulling his jacket back on, "I'm going after those two."

"In the state they're in, they won't get far," the truck driver promised.

There was no mistake: they'd tried to kill him. Why? Tintin wondered. And how could they have known I was here? Monsieur Fleurotte knew, certainly. But would he be the type? Who else… Why, of course! That girl, whats-her-name…. Vandez-something. Vandezande. She told me where Garage de l'Avenir was, and she worked with Fourcart…

Across the bridge, the road widened, with a truck stop and a petrol station on the far side of a long parking lot. A few trucks stood, gleaming in the bright sunlight beside the diner. Skid marks cut across the smooth asphalt of the parking lot, sliding up to the petrol pumps. A small group of men were standing around it. Tintin pulled in and parked, and made his way over to them.

He was just walking in front of the diner when he heard the gunshot. Instinctively, he dropped to the ground and protected his head with his arms. After a few seconds he chanced a quick look around, and saw a slack-jawed youth with brown hair staring at him. The youth gunned his motorcycle again, and it back-fired again. Feeling foolish, Tintin stood up and quickly walked away. "Smooth," he muttered. He didn't dare look at Snowy: sometimes, that dog was too expressive. He could almost hear the animal sniggering.

He made his way over to the group of men. One of them was arguing with a teenager in a polyester uniform.

"Excuse me," he called, "but does anyone know where the men from that car went?" He pointed at the Mercedes.

"That's what I'd like to know!" The man who was arguing with the pump attendant rounded on Tintin. "They skidded in here, like a bat out of hell, and stole my bloody car! He" – here the man jabbed an accusatory finger at the teenager, who looked like he was on the verge of tears – "was supposed to be filling it up. I'm waiting for the bloody police now. Are you looking for them too?"

"I'll say: they just tried to kill me!"

"Oh thank god," the teenager moaned. "Here's the police now."

xxx

It took a while to straighten things out, and things had gotten really interesting when Tintin had whipped out the gun, and by the time he got back to Marlinspike the afternoon was gone and evening was getting on. The Captain was in the sitting room, cheering on a football team when Tintin collapsed on the sofa.

He didn't like telling the Captain stuff like this. Half the time he completely overreacted, and the other half he just scoffed and dismissed it out of hand.

"Anything interesting?" The Captain snapped the sound off when the match ended and the boring match analysis began.

Tintin studied his phone. "Yeah, a bit. Two men tried to kill me this afternoon."

"Blistering barnacles! What happened?"

Tintin explained. As he spoke, he watched the Captain's face. When the man reached for his pipe, he knew that it wasn't going to be an overreaction.

"It's like a cheap thriller," he said when Tintin finished. "Can't be true."

"It is," Tintin said flatly. He sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. "It's an absolute fact. And one thing seems fairly obvious to me: Fourcart's assistant tipped those men off. She was the only one who knew I was going to see Fleurotte at that garage. Tomorrow, I shall pay another visit to her."

"I'm going with you this time," the Captain said firmly. "You never know. Especially with you."

"Thank you. Any calls?"

"Your agent."

That damned book swam to the front of Tintin's mind. With a growing feeling of horror, he forced all thought of it aside. It could wait: this was more important.


	7. Every man is surrounded by a neighbourhood of voluntary spies –Jane Austin

Martine Vandezande looked up as the door to the gallery opened, and managed a warm smile as Tintin entered. Outside, a silver Audi was parked across the road. She could see a man with a beard, who looked vaguely familiar, reading a newspaper in the driver's seat. A small white dog was looking out of the window, its tail wagging and its eyes trained on Tintin. When the reporter closed the door to the gallery behind him, the dog barked once, before becoming distracted with an empty Styrofoam cup that rolled along the street.

"Good morning, Mr Tintin," Martine said. "And to what do I owe this pleasure?" He was handsome, she thought, although a little baby-faced, and in some light his hair could be mistaken for almost-ginger. But he did have a lovely smile. It was amazing how at ease she had been with him yesterday, when he'd smiled at her.

"Not so much a pleasure, Miss Vandezande," he replied, his smile absent today.

"Oh?" She blinked, a little unsure of herself now. When she'd had time to think over their meeting yesterday, she had fancied that there had been a spark between them. Perhaps, she was wondering, it had all been in her head? She felt her cheeks start to blush.

"Mm. I'm becoming more and more convinced that Monsieur Fourcart's death wasn't an accident." He leaned against the counter and turned his smile on again. This time, it didn't reach his eyes, and made him look older; harder even.

She felt her breath catch in her throat. Unconsciously, she found herself fiddling with her necklace; a heavy gold pendant of two stylised letter E's back to back. "Mr Tintin…" she said, "you really believe…?"

"I do."

"How can you…?"

"Because yesterday, someone tried to kill me."

Her jaw dropped. She tried to say something, but nothing came out, so she closed her mouth instead and hoped her heart would start beating again soon.

"Yesterday, a car tried to run me over when I was out in Leignault. They had guns, Miss Vandezande, and I did not. I don't like being in situations where I need a gun, Miss Vandezande, because I don't carry a gun unless I need to. And when I need to, I usually end up using it, and I  _really_  dislike doing that."

"This can't be true," she said faintly. "This can't be happening."

"Sadly, it is true. And only one person knew that I was going to Leignault yesterday."

"Who?" she asked, a feeling of dread starting to work its way up from her stomach to clutch at her throat.

"You."

She gripped the desk to steady herself. The whole world had shifted slightly, knocking off kilter. "Me?" she asked, uncertainly. She remembered the conversation they'd had: she remembered giving him the address of the garage in Leignault, and she remembered him saying he was going to go out there, but this couldn't be happening, could it? This wasn't real. It was a joke, and he'd laugh and she'd burst into tears and see the funny side of it later.

It  _couldn_ _'_ _t_  be real.

"Yes, you." His smile, which had steadily turned more brittle as the conversation progressed, fell from his face completely. His dark eyes hardened, and seemed to bore into her. "Who did you tell?"

"What?"

"You must have told someone: who was it? Who did you tell I was going to Leignault? It's a simple question, Miss Vandezande, and I want an answer."

It was too much. She burst into tears without waiting for the joke to be revealed. "I didn't tell anyone!" she wailed. "Nobody asked about you! The only time you were mentioned was when Monsieur Nash told me that he didn't want to speak to any reporters, especially you! That's it, I swear!"

Tintin blinked and pulled back a little.  _I_ _might_ _have_ _come_ _on_ _a_ _little_ _too_ _strong,_  he thought to himself ruefully. She seemed genuinely upset; completely devastated in fact. He looked around for a box of tissues, but couldn't find any. There were no shelves of any kind behind the desk, but a small security camera blinked at him from the wall above it.

 _Of_ _course!_

"Why didn't I think of that first?" he groaned. Miss Vandezande looked up at him, still sobbing. "Who else is here, beside you and Monsieur Nash? Who else has access to the CCTV?"

"Nobody! Maybe the security company? I don't know! Honest!"

"Oh lord." He rubbed his hands over his face. "I made a mistake," he said, backing away to the door. "I'm terribly sorry, I didn't mean to make you cry."

"A-huh-huh-huh!" The force of her tears made her breath hitch.

"Sorry," he said lamely. "Really sorry about that. I'll just… I'll go."

"Puh-please do!" she cried.

The Captain folded his newspaper up and dropped it into the back seat as Tintin slid into the car. "You don't look happy," he said.

"I made her cry," Tintin replied grimly.

"Good for you. On purpose?"

"No, I think I made a mistake. I accused her of telling the bad guys where to find me."

"But you don't think she did?"

"There's cameras in the shop. And her tears were genuine:  _trust_ _me_."

Haddock started to laugh. He couldn't help it: it took a lot to fluster Tintin. "Blistering barnacles, you're some kind of tit!"

"I am aware of this," Tintin said stiffly.

Still grinning, the Captain started the car. "Your phone kept buzzing all the time you were in there," he added as they pulled away from the kerb.

The unsettling feeling washed over Tintin again as he checked his phone. He'd tossed it into the side compartment of the door before entering the gallery. He had twenty seven missed calls, all from his agent. As he looked at the screen, it started to vibrate again, showing an incoming call from his old editor at  _The_ _Daily_ _Reporter_. Guiltily, he denied the call and turned the phone off.

He'd foolishly answered one of the calls this morning, only to be reminded that the deadline was drawing closer, and to let him know that  _The_ _Daily_ _Reporter_  was considering suing him. They said he'd deliberately hidden his age from them when he worked there, and had no intention of letting that little debacle be raised to public attention again. They'd come under a lot of heat when it had all come out, two years ago, for employing a child. For a while afterwards their circulation had fallen and they'd lost a few of their best writers, who'd jumped ship at the first sign of controversy. It was only now that they were really gaining their reputation back.

He could see it from their point of view, but his editor in  _The_ _Daily_ _Reporter_  had known all along how old Tintin was, so sod him anyway.

"Anything to tell me?" the Captain asked.

"No," Tintin lied.

"Everything under control?"

"Yep."

"Good."

The car swung a left onto Rue Grétry, but the traffic held them up. By the time they'd reached the end of Grétry the lights had turned red and they had to wait to turn on to Boulevard Anspach. The Captain tutted under his breath, impatient to get out of the city before the lunchtime traffic really began. Beside him, Tintin fiddled with the radio and Snowy's ears. Ahead of them, on Anspach, the traffic crawled.

They had just neared the top of the jam when Tintin saw it: a huge poster in the window of a near-by curio shop. It was a dark poster. A man with dark glasses and a pointed beard, his clothing robe-like and a fez perched on his head ( _"_ _Fez_ _'_ _s_ _are_ _cool_ _now!_ _"_ ). His hands were held out, as though he were holding something, and in that space was a logo depicting two letter E's back to back. His mind whirled. The car moved forward. The sudden jolt was all it took to push Tintin's brain back into gear.

"Stop!" he cried. Without explaining, he simply opened the car door and jumped out, dashing across the street to examine the poster properly. Behind him, he heard a volley of car horns and the Captain cursing.

By the time he got back to the car, the lights had switched back to red, and the Captain had moved on to more colourful curses.

"Sorry!" Tintin said brightly.

"Sorry! Why would you jump out of a car! Thundering typhoons, you've held the entire street up!  _What_  was so important?  _Oh,_ _stop_ _beeping_ _at_ _me!_ " He turned around and started to swear at the cars behind them.

"What are you doing this evening?" Tintin asked. "Any plans?"

"Yes: I'm kicking you out and having a normal life."

"There's a show on tonight, by some mystic. Endaddine Akass."

"And?" The lights changed again, and the Captain pulled onto Boulevard Anspach.

"I want to go. Can you drop me at the box office?"

"Endaddine Akass?" The Captain mulled the name over for a moment. "Isn't he the fellow Castafiore was raving about?"

"Yes, he magnetizes people." They looked at each other and shrugged.

"Why not?" the Captain asked with a sigh. "If nothing else, it'll be good for a laugh."

"Be good, Captain," Tintin warned. "I want to remain as inconspicuous as possible."

"Is this all part of your investigation?" the Captain asked as he pulled onto Rue Auguste Orts.

"Partly. But mainly because I don't want people to think I've been suckered into this magnetizing crap."

The Captain laughed, and drove towards Ticketmaster.


	8. Here's something to think about: how come you never see a headline like "Psychic wins lottery"? – Jay Leno

Endaddine Akass, Tintin thought, was a complete fraud. He was using pseudo-science to sell a concept to wealthy idiots. They clearly had more money than sense, and were dazzled with a couple of fake science-y terms and Latin sounding words. Throw in 'environmental awareness' and 'at-one-ment' and Akass had them eating out of his hands, and showering him with money.

What a fraud.  _And_ _what_ _a_ _genius!_

All he had done was walk out on stage and chant; "Oooooouuuuuuuuuuummmmmm!" over and over (here, the Captain had almost choked on a boiled sweet, and had to be noisily slapped on the back for a good minute and a half), and then spout some clap-trap about the universe, and how he could tap it's power to magnetize people for a year, making them attract good luck like a magnet (here, the Captain had burst out laughing, and attempted to turn it into a fake cough, but managed instead to turn it in to a sneezing fit, which led to a giggling fit – it was remarkable: his friends were always mentioning that Tintin was lucky for not having parents to embarrass him. Then they spent a public evening with the Captain, and offered Tintin their condolences later).

So Akass was a fraud, but he was a powerful one. Tintin had thought he would be out of place in such a meeting, but his hadn't been the only famous face there, and it wasn't even the most famous. He had seen two European models and their entourage of 'socialites', a couple of pretentious writers, a German pop star and her footballer boyfriend, and a member of the extended Royal Family of Belgium.

And ever present at the mystics side were his own entourage: men in dark suits that stood close to Akass at all times. Their jackets hadn't been big enough to hide the bulge at their waist: they had all been carrying guns.

Pretty dangerous, for a mystic.

He shelved that thought. There was no point trying to unravel this from Akass's side: the man was an unknown quantity, and there was nothing linking him to Fourcart, besides Bianca Castafiore and Ms Vandezande both being fans of him.

More promising was the CCTV footage. It was more likely that someone – probably someone in close proximity to the gallery – had seen the footage and followed him out to Leignault. They would have to be close to the gallery: sure, it was possible to spy on people remotely, but a lot of the time you had to be really close to them for it to work properly. That meant that whoever was receiving the footage would have to be in another of the buildings along that stretch of road. Most of them were stores and wine-bars, but there were apartments over the shops.

He also knew one more thing: two of Akass's entourage were familiar. He hadn't been able to place them for a while, and it had bothered him for most of the evening, niggling at him until he realised that he had seen them before: they were driving the car that had almost ran him over, out by Leignault.

So what exactly was Akass's interest in this? Where did he fit in?

xxx

He ignored the gallery this time: he had no need to go back there, and he doubted Martine Vandezande would be too thrilled to see him. Armed with a clipboard and a disarming smile, Tintin went straight to the brown door between the gallery and the next-door beauty salon, and rang the first bell.

"Fisk; Accountants," a bored voice replied from the speaker.

 _Perfect!_ "Delivery for Mr Fisk," Tintin replied.

"Come in," the voice said, a shade above nonplussed.

The door buzzed open and Tintin went in. Fisk's door was immediately on his right. It was still closed, but he could hear high-heeled shoes clip-clopping their way over. He darted for the stairs and, taking them two at a time, disappeared onto the next level and stood, silently, until the receptionist opened the door, swore, and slammed it shut again.

Sniggering, he made his way to the door labelled "1a" and rang the doorbell, plastering an amicable grin onto his face. "Good morning!" he said brightly as the door opened to reveal a young woman, a small girl balanced on her hip. "I'm a reporter for one of the local newspapers, and I was wondering if you had time to take part in a survey?"

"Oh!" the woman said. She looked at him curiously. "What sort of survey?"

"The environment," he replied without missing a beat. "There's a new bill up in front of the European Commission next week, and we were wondering exactly how many people really understand what it's about."

"Right. Er. Ok."

He rattled off a few easy questions, about her carbon number and her transportation habits and heating bills. She answered with a grin, and he made her feel clever and at ease. Then he continued to the next door, and the next, and the next, until he found himself bounding up the stairs and starting on the third floor.

The first door simply told him where to go (and it wasn't very pleasant and, most likely, physically impossible) but the second door was  _very_  revealing.

"Hello, sir," Tintin said as the door was opened. His smile didn't falter for a second. "I'm conducting a survey about the environment and the European Commission's proposed changes to the law-"

"I don't care," the man said. He slammed the door closed and Tintin blinked and backed away.

xxx

Grey stood at the window, his mobile phone pressed to his ear. He carefully leaned forward and twitched the curtains to get a better view. "He's just left," he said in a low voice. Behind him, Otis paced the room nervously.

Grey listened to the voice on the other end of the phone closely. "Some crap about a survey…. Oh, of course he knows. He hid it well… We'll take care of it, boss… As soon as possible. Consider it done."

xxx

Tintin smiled as he pushed open the door of the gallery. His eyes flicked quickly to the camera above the desk before focusing on Ms Vandezande. "Good afternoon, Ms Martine," he said. "I came to apologise. I truly am sorry about what happened yesterday."

She narrowed her eyes at him, and nodded stiffly. "Don't mention it," she said woodenly.

"No, it was boorish of me," he said, taking another step towards her. She lifted a stack of papers to her chest, as though she was using them as a shield. "I had no right to treat you so abominably. I want to tell you that by this evening, I will have the criminal unmasked. I have a rendezvous with an informer of mine at eight o'clock, at the old Fréaux factory, near Moulinsart. You know it? It's the one they're knocking down."

She looked at him as though he were crazy. "Christ, Tintin, be careful!"

"Don't worry about me," Tintin said, grinning up at the camera. "I was told these men are dorks."

xxx

"Dorks, are we?" Otis hissed. He stabbed his cigarette into the ashtray, grinding it down until it shredded. "Dorks? Us?"

"You're such a dork," Grey said.

xxx

The old Fréaux factory was already half-ruined. Kids had long ago smashed every window they could reach, while more adventurous teens had managed to break in and finish off the windows on the upper levels. Now, rusted machines clung to the weeds in the overgrown field, and the cavernous floor of the old factory echoed stonily.

Tintin crouched low behind the wall of what had once been the foreman's office. The glass part, which had reached from about waist-high to the ceiling, lay in shards on either side of the wall. He ignored the tell-tale tingle in his right foot, which meant a serious case of cramp was about to come on, and concentrated on keeping his breathing as silent as possible.

He heard the crunch of gravel as a car drove up the rutted lane to the factory. Silence, then the slam of doors as people – at least two – got out. Their feet were a lot quieter outside, walking on mainly weeds and grass, but once they reached the machine-floor, now gutted of it's iron and fixings, their hard soles rang out eerily through the still, almost dead air.

The men stopped.

"Do you hear anything?" one asked, his voice nervous.

"Not yet," the other replied. His voice was calm and perfectly cool. Tintin risked a look over the wall, but both men were in the shadows cast by the evening sun shining through so many shattered windows. The floor was cast in a checkerboard of light and dark.

"There!" One – the shorter one in the hoodie and black leather jacket – seized his companion's arm and pointed at Tintin.

 _Shit! I've been seen!_

He darted forward, using his crouch to give him more momentum, like a sprinter. He ignored the pins-and-needles shooting through his cramping foot, and pounded across the concrete floor. He heard two more shouts, but he couldn't make out any words, before the shooting started.

A volley of shots rang out. For a moment, he thought that he'd been lucky – he was very lucky sometimes – but then it felt as though someone had just kicked him in the back. His hip bucked forward as a bullet ripped into him, and he cried out once, roughly, before collapsing to the ground. Pain blossomed and he pressed his hands to where the blood was flowing too freely. A moment later, the blackness took him.


	9. If you want to recapture your youth, cut off his allowance – Al Bernstein

Late-night phone calls made the Captain's blood freeze. It was a visceral reaction, and one that had only appeared in the years that he'd known Tintin, but it was a reaction that had intensified and gotten worse when Tintin had finally moved into Marlinspike Hall. Where as before, late-night phone calls were usually drunk friends talking rubbish, or remembering the good ol' days, now they heralded bad news, like a crow on the eve of battle. He would be sitting in his chair, or perhaps asleep in bed, and the phone would begin to ring. For a moment, he would feel annoyed. _Who would ring this late?_ he would ask himself.

Then he would remember.

Tintin. Car accident? Drunk-driver? Guns? Knife? Random mugging or practiced vendetta? Kidnapped or murdered? A thousand scenarios would struggle for dominance as he grasped the phone and tentatively answered.

Usually, it would be a plea for help. "The last bus is gone, and we're too poor to get a taxi!" "I'm the designated driver, but I don't have a car." "Please pick me up: I'm cold and a bit tipsy!"

Other times it had been worse, and it was these phone calls that the Captain feared. The "We're sorry, but there's been an accident" or the "We're not sure what happened, but he's missing" calls. They lurked, waiting and grinning at his fear, in the shadows when the phone rang at night.

Now, late Saturday afternoon and pulling into the long drive at the Hall, the Captain figured that it hadn't been the  _worst_  Friday night.

The call had come at half past eight in the evening. He'd listened carefully as one of the Thompson's told him that Tintin had been shot. He'd been very calm, and asked – in a very calm way – which hospital was he going to? He'd listened, put the phone down, collected his car-keys, shooed Snowy from the front door, given up and let Snowy get into the car, and then had a mini heart attack. He'd sat in the car for a good five minutes, just parked in the drive-way, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles went white, and grinding his teeth. Then, when he was able to, he drove to the hospital.

By the time he'd reached CHU Brugmann, Tintin was already in surgery. Both Thompsons met the Captain outside the hospital and explained what had happened: Tintin asked them to meet him outside the old factory in Moulinsart before eight o'clock, but they'd been late. They'd been held up in traffic, to be precise, and hadn't made it to the meeting until a little after eight. They'd found Tintin inside the factory on his own; his bike had been hidden in some bushes close by. They'd called the ambulance and as soon as they knew what hospital he was being taken to, they'd called the Captain.

Surgery had taken a few hours. Tintin had been shot in the hip of all places. The bullet had taken a small chunk of bone with it, but he was alive and kicking and, to the Captain's annoyance, able to sign himself out on Saturday afternoon.

"You should have stayed in hospital," the Captain grumbled as the car swung into the garage. For a brief moment, he considered ramming Tintin's motorbike. He wouldn't be able to get into trouble if he wasn't mobile. Luckily, sanity won out and he simply parked the car and glared at Tintin.

Tintin smiled back tiredly. "Worth it," he said. "The two guys that shot me are the same two that tried to run me over. At least one of them is living in a flat above the gallery, and works for Endaddine Akass."

"And getting shot to find that out was worth it?"

"I needed evidence. Now I have it."

"You're an idiot." The Captain opened the car door and got out. With a stiff groan, Tintin followed suit, his face lighting up when he heard the frenzied barking growing closer.

"Snowy!" he called. "Where's my big boy? Where's my big, bad boy?"

"I hope you're well enough to walk him," the Captain said as Snowy galloped into the garage and flung himself at Tintin. "You're not getting him all hyper and leaving him to me, are you?"

"No," Tintin said guiltily. He picked up Snowy and tried to balance him in such a way that his scrabbling paws couldn't hit against his injured hip.

"Liar."

"No, this is research."

Together they left the garage, pausing so that the Captain could slide the door shut. "Research?" he asked flatly.

"Yes. How much does your pet love you."

"Oh, I see. This is a very scientific piece of research, I take it?"

"Very. The findings are explosive."

"Oh? And what are your findings?"

"My dog loves me very much, while your cat hates you."

They entered the Hall from the back, using the French windows that led to a sumptuous sun room. The cat was snoozing on one of the wicker chairs. She looked up as they entered but decided none of them was carrying food and put her head back down. Snowy, on the other hand, was on the floor and still dancing around Tintin's legs.

"I can't fault you on your research," the Captain said glumly.

"It's a sad life," Tintin said consolingly.

"Feed him." The Captain pointed at Snowy. "I'm going to walk him soon: this stupid gallery thing is on tonight and I promised Ramó Nash I'd attend. I saw him yesterday, when he came to pick up that awful sculpture."

"You're going to that?" Tintin looked up, his tiredness replaced with a new feeling of alertness. "What time?"

The Captain groaned. "Oh, come on! Blistering barnacles, Tintin, you just got  _shot!_  Most people would take a day off!"

"I don't like mysteries, and I don't like it when people try to kill me! I sort of want to get to the bottom of this before they finish me off!"

"Well, maybe if you stop putting yourself in danger" –

"Danger my arse! You buy a disgusting sculpture, give my phone number to a strange man, and this is my fault?" The argument continued to the kitchen, where Tintin realised he couldn't stoop down to pick up Snowy's food bowl.

"Thundering typhoons, Tintin, how was I supposed to know that giving your number to someone would get them killed, and lead to a couple of attempts on your life? I'm not psychic! Need a hand?"

"Yes please, I've just been shot," Tintin snapped, giving up trying to reach for the food bowl.

"I know! That's why I'm trying to convince you to shut up and sit down for the night! Do you  _want_  to go to this thing? Honestly? Do you think they'll take another shot at you in a crowded gallery?"

"No," Tintin said uncertainly, "but I could…"

"What? Admire the art? Look at the evening dresses? Compare suits with other guys?" the Captain snapped. He shovelled half a tin of Chum into the food bowl and set it back on the floor for Snowy. "What could you possibly do? And keep in mind that you've just been shot, so the chances of a high-speed chase on foot is right out."

"You have a car," Tintin pointed out.

"And? You think I'm leaving a pleasant evening of free food and wine to drive your ass around Brussels in a high-speed chase?" They made their way to the living room, where Tintin gratefully dropped onto the couch, grimacing at the pain in his side.

"Need a painkiller?" the Captain asked sympathetically.

"Maybe later. What happened in  _Home_ _and_ _Away_  last night?"

"Indy wasn't in it. Sorry." The Captain sat heavily into his favourite chair and blew out a noisy sigh. "Of course, you know what's going to happen, don't you?"

"She leaves Romeo and he gets with her half-sister?"

"Not in  _Home_ _and_ _Away_! Blistering barnacles, I mean with you getting shot!"

"Oh. Fair enough. No. What's going to happen?" Snowy nosed the door open and jumped up onto the couch beside Tintin, trying to snuggle into him but bumping against his injured hip. With a hiss, Tintin picked up the dog and placed him in his lap. Happy, Snowy curled up and started to lick Tintin's fingers.

"It's a good job it happened so late on a Friday," the Captain said glumly. "We have two days before child services turn up asking what happened. What am I supposed to tell them?"

"That I have a job, and I was doing it?" Tintin asked. "It's not like this is the first time I've been shot."

"No, but it's only the second time you've been shot after you started living here. Good god, I can't believe I've said that like it's a good thing." The Captain ran his hand over his face tiredly. "They'll show up, all smiles and sympathy, and do one of their 'assessments'. Then they'll figure it out."

"Figure what out?" Tintin asked, alarmed.

"That I have no idea what I'm doing." The Captain sat back and shuddered. "You'll end up back in a children's home. I'll end up with a nice, peaceful life… Actually, that doesn't sound too bad." He brightened up considerably. "No running around, flying off to different countries or facing down bad-guys!"

"Sounds awful," Tintin moaned. "Very tedious."

"I like tedious. Tedium is my middle name."

"I thought it was Francis? Well, if child services are going to send me away on Monday, I might as well live it up tonight and go to the gallery." Tintin turned his beaming smile on the Captain. "In for a penny, in for a pound, no?"


	10. It was a dark and stormy nightmare - Neil Gaiman

He was standing in a patch of light. To his right, he could see a wall made of thick, grey bricks. In front and behind him he could see only a thick blackness beyond the small halo of light that surrounded him. Above him there hung a small, bare bulb that hummed lightly.

He didn't know how long he had been here, but he thought that it must be some time. He didn't recognise this place, nor could he remember where he was or how he had arrived here. His stomach jittered unpleasantly, and a feeling of trepidation rose up from his toes and spread out over his whole body. His knees screamed with tension and he realised that his whole body was on edge.

He had no idea how to get out of here, but the longer he stood there, under the bare bulb, the more he realised he would have to make a move in some direction. He looked longingly up at the bulb, wishing he could stay in its glow. He felt safe here, and he had the strange feeling that there was something in the dark, something that he couldn't see, but it could see him.

Fear bloomed, fresh and full and oddly satisfying. His heart began to beat a little faster and when he tried to take a step forward his feet refused. His brain was telling him that moving was a Bad Idea.

He closed his eyes and stepped forward. When he opened them, he was on the very edge of the light. Ahead of him was a solid-feeling wall of dark. He tentatively raised his hand and pushed it into the dark, almost expecting to feel it as the dark gave way. Instead, the air felt cold, and that was all. With a loud inhalation, he took another step forward into the dark.

Immediately behind him, the light winked off and the space he was standing in lit up as another winked on. Surprised, he looked up and saw another bare bulb overhead.  _The whole… Corridor? Must be lined with them_ , he thought. Well, it was a welcome thought, and he took another few steps forward. Again, the light winked off and was replaced almost instantly wherever he walked. Screwing up his courage, he set off.

He wandered for a while – time seemed to act strange here: it couldn't have been more than a few minutes, but it seemed like hours – but the corridor was straight and still as dark as it ever had been. The only light seemed to be following him around, illuminating him but leaving the rest of the place in the dark. He passed no doors and saw no evidence of anyone else.

He stopped walking and looked around, his fear steadily being replaced with confusion and annoyance. He still couldn't shake the unsettled feeling in his stomach.

He stiffened. Was that a noise behind him? Turning quickly he peered into the dark, but he couldn't see anything. He wasn't even sure he'd heard anything: just a whisper, the promise of a silent foot-fall.

He tried to make his breathing as quiet as possible while he scanned the dark. The fear was coming back, and his stomach started to churn unpleasantly. After a few tense moments he took another careful step in the direction he had been headed, careful to keep one eye over his shoulder. Again, the light winked off and then back on, moving to keep up with him, and he realised that anything hidden in the dark around him could see him perfectly. He reached up and slapped it with a closed fist. The glass shattered and a small jolt of power surged blue before the light was plunged out. Silently, Tintin moved forward and pressed his back to the wall. As soon as he reached a new position, the light overhead winked back on. He cursed quietly and moved back to his old position, where the bulb was broken.

The first thing he noticed was the small fact that the light came back on; the bulb was whole and unbroken.

The second was the figure.

He froze and stared at her. She was, he realised, one of the girls from the Captain's horrible sculpture. She was the one on the left, he thought. The one with the weary face and the look of abysmal acceptance in her eyes. She stood, forlorn and completely still, with one hand reaching out. When his breathing started again, Tintin moved slightly to examine her. She looked like a statue. He reached out and brushed his fingertips against her stiff hand, and she felt as cold and hard as granite.

When he took a step backwards, he noticed something else. Or rather, he remembered a very important fact: the sculpture had included a second girl.

Something cold and clammy took hold of his shoulder. He turned and screamed -

\- and sat up in bed, the scream dying on his lips. Snowy was barking and the room was spinning. He reached out a shaky hand and snapped on his lamp. The sudden, jerky movement made his hip cry out in pain and he ruthlessly swallowed the wave of nausea that washed over him.

 _Too late!_

Shooing Snowy, who was still making a nervous clamour, Tintin dashed to his en-suite bathroom and dropped to his knees in front of the toilet. The next few minutes were noisy and contained the ghosts of a meal he didn't remember eating. As he sat back blearily and flushed the toilet he heard his bedroom door fly open and hit his dresser.

"What is it?" the Captain shouted. "What's going on?"

Tintin leaned back and looked into his room. The Captain, dressed in his pyjamas, was standing in the middle of the room looking confused and sleepy. "What?" Tintin asked weakly.

"You screamed," the Captain said urgently. "What's wrong?"

"Oh. A nightmare." Tintin stood up, his legs still shaking, and swallowed a glass of water. "Then I got sick. I feel terrible."

"I'm not surprised: you were very drunk last night," the Captain replied ruefully.

"I was?" Tintin was surprised. He didn't remember getting drunk. It happened so rarely that he was usually able to remember the events leading up to it.

 _Ramó Nash handed him a glass of wine. "One glass can't hurt, can it?"_

"Huh," said Tintin. He remembered having that glass of wine, but no more than that.

xxx

Against all odds, it had been a nice evening. The gallery was bright and welcoming, Miss Martine had been on-hand all evening, arranging sales and talking to buyers and generally taking over from Monsieur Fourcart, and the guests weren't nearly as pretentious as Tintin had feared. Yes, there was the occasional thirty-odd year old man with a floppy woollen hat and a v-neck t-shirt that showed off most of their sunken chest, and some of the women had been wearing luminous bows in their hair as ironic statements of something-or-other, but for the most part it was well-to-do, pleasant people looking to unwind after a hard week, or avid collectors sizing up the Next Big Thing.

The Captain had looked snazzy and proper in a black suit and tie, while Tintin had worn a casual-looking grey suit with no tie, and managed to pull off shabby-chic with aplomb. Snowy had been left at home, per the gallery's rules.

Everything was orderly and nice, and the champagne had flowed from an extravagant fountain on a white-covered table bedecked with flowers that had been cleverly arranged to make a tableau of little women going about their daily lives.

"Champagne, sir?" a waiter had asked.

"No thanks," Tintin had replied politely.

"Not having a tipple?" the Captain asked, staring longingly after the waiter, who was walking away with his silver platter of goblets. He really, really wished that Calculus would come up with a cure to his enforced sobriety soon…

"Not a good idea," Tintin murmured.

"In case someone tries to take another shot at you?" the Captain scoffed.

"No. You should never drink while on medication." Tintin shot him a superior smirk and drifted away. "I'm going to mingle. Try not to destroy anything."

"Try not to get killed."

Tintin skirted the groups of people that had formed around a few of the sculptures, noticing that the Captain had gotten sucked into the small knot around the letter H.

The sculptures had been arranged, unsurprisingly, in alphabetical order. They were all similar: the clear casing of the letter with a girl, or two girls, twisting to form the inner letter. All the girls had been modelled with injuries, from hair-line fractures to missing teeth bared in a fearful snarl; from broken fingers and toes that marred the flow of their bodies to gaping cuts in their throats that appeared like a second smile.

Rising above the soft music that was being piped over the loudspeakers was the gentle hum of the room around him. He heard snatches of conversations: points about the individual pieces and the sculpting technique used to create the girls, to general news about family and shared friends. He drifted through it, watching and listening, discarding people and information as useless, until he reached the back of the gallery. Miss Martine had seen him a few minutes after his arrival. She'd managed a grimace of a smile and to hiss at him to behave and not cause any trouble.

He could see her now. She was over by the desk, her head bent as she quickly wrote something down. A woman in an elegant black dress was talking to her, probably buying one of the pieces. Tintin stood nonchalantly beside the wooden door. Nobody was looking at him, too absorbed in the gallery and its work while the waiters concentrated on topping up wine and champagne glasses. Quickly, Tintin opened the door and slid into the back room.

The room was mostly in darkness. A strong, chemical scent stung his nostrils. Plunging his hands into his pants pockets, he strolled in and looked around. The walls were lined with metal shelving. Pictures and other, smaller works of art were stored there, waiting for the exhibition to finish before going back into the main gallery. He ran his finger over one of the shelves, careful not to knock against the vase that sat there, and saw that there was no dust. Someone, probably Miss Martine, had cleaned here recently. He supposed that it was one of her jobs.

At the very back of the room stood one of Ramó Nash's works. It was the one the Captain had described to him; the glacial 'Mother'. Tintin paused underneath it and looked up. There was no hiding the fact that the subject was very beautiful. Her face was serene and youthful; a young woman in the bloom of her life, and she was dressed less provocatively than the other works in a long white summer dress decorated with tiny red flowers along the hem. Her hair was blonde with a tinge of reddish highlights.

"She is beautiful, no?" a quiet voice behind him said.

Tintin jumped, and came back to reality. With a start, he realised he had brought his hand up and was reaching out to touch the sculpture. He blushed like a small child caught red-handed, and shoved his hand back into his pocket. Turning, he saw a short man with light hair leaning against the door. He wore a plain black t-shirt and dark trousers with black-and-white Converse training shoes.

"She is beautiful, your mother," the man said. He gestured to the sculpture.

"The artist is to be congratulated," Tintin said carefully.  _In_ _the_ _face._ _With_ _a_ _chair,_  he added silently.

"Then I thank you," said the man with a small smile. "I am the artist."

"Ah, Monsieur Nash," said Tintin. He looked again; the man was as the Captain described him: short – barely taller than Tintin himself, who wasn't exactly over-burdened in the height department – slightly scruffy and in possession of a pair of sardonic eyebrows.

"And you are Tintin," said Nash. He held out his hand, and Tintin shook it. "It is a pleasure."

"Really? You told Ms Vandezande that you didn't want to talk to me."

Nash cocked his head. "When was this?" he asked.

"When Monsieur Fourcart died."

"Ah." The artist shook his head. "Don't take that personally: I didn't wish to speak with anyone. He was one of my dearest friends. Certainly my oldest, and certainly my partner in crime." He gave a twisted smile at that thought, his eyes distant. "I always thought he'd be around," he said softly. " _ *****_ _Au_ _besoin_ _on_ _connaït_ _l_ _'_ _ami_ , as they say _._  Although I think he was a better friend to me than I realised."

Tintin raised an eyebrow. "I'm sure that's not true," he said.

"Hm. You'd be surprised." Nash shook himself from his melancholy and looked closely at Tintin. "I heard you got shot yesterday. You look well."

"Oh. I didn't know it was so widely known."

"Why not? It was in the papers this morning."

"I didn't see the papers," Tintin replied. "You can't trust them, anyway."

"Of course," Nash said with a laugh. "Who likes reporters, anyway?"

"Nobody," Tintin said soberly. "We're terrible people."

"I must admit, I'm surprised to see you here." Nash moved passed Tintin and used his hand to swipe at a smudge on Mother's clear casing. "I didn't think you wrote about such things as art or galleries."

"I don't," Tintin admitted. "I'm here for pleasure. You know my guardian, Captain Haddock, bought one of your pieces?"

Nash stiffened. "Yes," he said in a low voice. "I liberated them yesterday from that… that  _room_  he had stashed them in."

"Them?" Tintin asked curiously.

"Yes: Hele and Halka. The two girls inside the case," Nash explained.

"Ah. Halka? That's a Polish name, isn't it? I don't recognise the other."

"Hele. It's Estonian. Well, Greek by way of Estonia." Nash shrugged. "I name them. I can't help it. I love them all, in my own way." He rested his hand against Mother and sighed. "And here is the one I love the most. She was my first, and my favourite."

"When did you make her?" Tintin stepped back and looked up at the sculpture. "It's strange," he said suddenly, before Nash could answer, "but I almost feel as though I know her. Isn't that odd?" He laughed nervously.

Nash eyed him speculatively. "I hear that a lot," he replied. "Someone will see her and tell me of their sister, or their cousin, or their friend… someone they haven't seen for a while, and how she looks like Mother. I hear their tale of how this girl fell from grace, or simply disappeared. I tell them to pick up the phone and get in touch. Too much is lost when relationships die. I know what I'm talking about: I lost my wife and child many years ago. I drove them out of my life, and now I am alone. Truly alone, now that Fourcart is dead. So tell me," he added, making his voice lighter, "why you are here, in this storeroom, instead of at my grand opus? This is, after all, the pinnacle of my career. Or so I am told."

"Then why aren't you out there?" Tintin asked.

"These things bore me. Modern art is mostly wank, and the people that like it mostly wankers. And I say this as a modern artist."

"You're right," Tintin agreed. "I say this as a fan of art."

"But not modern art."

"No, not modern art."

"I've seen some of your photographs. You have a good eye."

"Thank you!" Tintin said, pleased. "That means a lot, coming from someone who… er…"

"Creates modern wank?" Nash supplied.

"Exactly! Oh, no, hang on, that's not what I" –

"Think nothing of it," Nash said with a wave of his hand. "And in return, I shall continue to hate reporters."

Behind them, the door opened and Martine Vandezande came in. "There you are," she said, sounding relieved. "Monsieur, someone wants to talk to you about one of the pieces..." Her eyes fell on Tintin, and she scowled. "What are you doing back here?" she demanded.

"He's here at my request," Nash said quickly. "I'll be back in a moment, Mr Tintin." Tintin nodded and waited until the artist and Martine had left before turning back to Mother.

It was jarring. He didn't know if she really was a scathing indictment of modern attitudes towards women, but he knew that she made him feel odd. There was something about her: she looked as though she were real; she really  _did_. She could have simply been resting; standing against a counter and taking a breather before starting on the cleaning perhaps, or simply having a quiet think. Her only visible wounds were the handprints around her neck and the small amount of blood on her temple, staining her blonde hair. In fact, in the darkened and empty room, among the forgotten paintings and old vases, it seemed as though she would come to life at any second. He could almost see it. First, her eyes would blink then come back into focus. Then, she would look at him…

The door reopened and Nash came back. He was carrying a glass of wine and a bottle of beer. He held the wine out to Tintin. "For you," he said. "Enjoy your night of pleasure."

"Ah, I don't drink wine," Tintin said regretfully.

"You don't?" Nash looked genuinely shocked.

"Well, sometimes. But I'm taking painkillers and they're very strong," Tintin explained.

"Of course," Nash said. He held out the glass of wine. "One glass can't hurt, can it?"

"I don't suppose so," Tintin said. He took the glass.

"You said the Captain was your guardian. You are an orphan?"

xxx

"It was about ten o'clock when I found you," the Captain said, once Tintin had finished talking. They were both in the bathroom. Tintin was still stationed at the toilet, looking pitiful and hung-over, while the Captain was sitting on the side of the bath, his chin resting on one fist. "Poor Nash was trying to get you outside. You were twisted."

"Twisted?" Tintin said weakly.

"Uh-huh. Completely pissed and staggering. It was almost funny, except he tried to get you to the front door by walking you past a bunch of journalists."

"Oh no." Tintin straightened up and looked at the Captain in horror. "Don't say that."

The Captain shrugged. "Well, all of Belgium – and most of Europe – knows how you feel about modern art."

"Oh no. Nooooo."

"Yup. The word 'wank' was mentioned several times."

Tintin hid his face in his hands. "Oh, no, no, no! What time is it?"

"Too late to stop it from being printed, I'd say. Although, with luck, it'll appear in the Sunday arts supplements and nobody else will notice it." He stopped and thought for a second. "Wait. Tintin drunk and raving and calling people rude names? Never mind: it'll be all over the news tomorrow."

"Oh god!" Tintin leaned over the toilet and started to retch again. As if on cue, his mobile phone began to ring and vibrate over his dresser. "I can't speak to anyone," he said pleadingly.

The Captain rolled his eyes. Some days, he felt more like an unpaid personal assistant or chauffeur. He went into the bedroom and answered the phone, returning to lean on the bathroom floor and glare at Tintin.

"Ah, Flipke," he said. Tintin looked marginally relieved: Flipke had been his agent for the last two years, and was a damned good one. "He's alive, and I've just told him… No, he's taking it all right. I mean, he's getting sick but that could be the drink… Yes, I'll tell him that… Oh? I see… When?... How much?... Huh. I'll tell him that, too." He hung up the phone and tossed it behind him, where it landed on the bed. "You're being sued," he said.

"Oh," said Tintin.

" _The_ _Daily_ _Reporter_  is suing you. For fraud. They want the full rights to the articles you wrote while you were working for them, and 80% of the profits from your new book."

 _Is_ _it_ _too_ _late_ _to_ _crawl_ _back_ _in to_ _bed?_  Tintin thought. It was an appealing thought: to pull the covers back over his head and pretend that the world had gone away. Just for a day.

"What's the name of that editor?" the Captain asked. "The one at  _The_ _Daily_ _Reporter_."

"Henri De Villars?"

"That's the one. He and I need to have a little conversation. Cheer up, Tintin. So you're hung-over, humiliated and being sued? Worse things have happened than that!"

Tintin groaned and ducked back into the toilet. Sure, worse things had happened, but he was having a hard time remembering them at the moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Used as "A friend in need is a friend indeed" in English


	11. People are more violently opposed to fur than leather because it's safer to harass rich women than motorcycle gangs – Alexei Sayle

Tintin hid in his room for most of the day, blasting his way through a horde of darkspawn and venting his frustration on the broodmother. He never bothered to play video games anywhere other than his room any more: the Captain had an awful habit of pretending to be reading, while secretly he was watching the action on-screen. Then, during a particularly nasty battle, he'd start rooting for the other guy, and Tintin was sick of having his concentration ruined with shouts of  _"_ _Go_ _on,_ _Ezio,_ _fall!_ _Fall!_ _Yeeeeaaaaah!_ _"_ or  _"_ _Kill_ _him,_ _Loghain!_ _Kill_ _Alistair_ _in_ _the_ _face!_ _"_ He still played Grand Theft Auto in front of the Captain though, although those games quickly descended into random acts of violence, or timing each other to see how long they could keep evading the police with the maximum number of  _'_ _wanted_ _'_  stars.

He'd paused the game a while ago, when the Captain had finally got through to the dreaded Henri De Villars, and tried to listen in to the conversation, but – for once – most of it had been rather civil, and the only raised voice he'd heard was the Captain losing his cool and shouting:  _"_ _No!_ _You_ _listen_ _to_ _me!_ _Blistering_ _barnacles,_ _I_ _know_ _where_ _you_ _live,_ _you_ _horrible_ _little_ _man!_ _Don_ _'_ _t_ _make_ _me_ _fly_ _up_ _there!_ _"_  Then everything had gone quiet again, so Tintin had gone back to playing his game.

Eventually, the door to his room opened and the Captain came in. He lay down on the bed, his back against the headboard, and watched Tintin, who was sitting on the armchair facing the television and Playstation 3.

"Any luck?" Tintin asked cautiously.

"I don't like that man," the Captain replied. Snowy jumped up to join him, snuffling at his hands until the Captain had to spread them wide to show the dog that he hadn't come baring treats.

Tintin shrugged. "He's not so bad." He was at a critical point in the game now. He was playing on nightmare difficulty, and had used his last mana potion to resurrect Sten. The broodmother was almost dead though, and Sten was a tank of a character.

"He's a swine," the Captain said. "Happily, I was able to persuade him to my point of view. He's faxing some documents over to Flipke. Once they're signed, all of your early work belongs to you. And that includes most of the good stuff you wrote under Jack Keller's name."

Jack Keller had been another journalist at  _The_ _Reporter_. Once, he'd been a good reporter, and had worked for  _The_ _Chicago_ _Tribune_ , but when he'd arrived in Europe he'd been burnt out, and by the time Tintin had known him he'd been a wreck of a man who spent his days drinking vodka and pulling in a hefty salary from  _The_ _Daily_ _Reporter_  by getting Tintin to write the articles and submitting them under his own name, which carried more weight than an unknown, cub reporter.

"Really?" Tintin looked around in surprise. He'd expected the Captain to threaten his way to getting access to every article written under the Tintin pseudonym, but not anything he'd written for Jack. The copyright for those articles should rest squarely in Jack's name.

" _Go_ _on,_ _broodmother!_ _Kill_ _him!_ _Finish_ _him!_ _"_

Tintin turned back in time to see Sten wandering too close to the broodmother. She reached out one tentacle and picked him up, and proceeded to smash him against the ground. "Damn you!" he screamed. "Stop putting your bow away!"

" _Sweep_ _the_ _leg!_ _Sweep_ _the_ _leg!_ _Yeeeeaaaah!_ _"_ The broodmother finished with Sten and tossed him easily at Alistair, who went down under the weight of the dead body. Seconds later, a swarm of shrieks appeared and quickly wiped out the rest of the adventuring party and Tintin tossed the controller away in disgust. "Good fun!" the Captain chortled happily.

"Ugh, frustrating game. I'm bored now. I think I'll head into the village for a while."

"Need a lift?" the Captain asked.

"Nah. I'll take my bike. It's only the village."

"I really don't like that bike. It's dangerous."

"No it's not: it's a heap of metal."

"It's a heap of metal that goes very fast."

"Ah, but it's me that makes it go fast," Tintin said quickly, grinning up at the Captain. "Don't worry: I'll stick to the speed limit."

"You should get a car. Let me buy you a car."

"No." Tintin stood up and stretched before pulling on his battered, brown leather jacket. "I like my bike."

"You must be the only teenager in the world that won't let someone buy them a car. How did I end up with you? Blistering barnacles, I must have done something terrible in a past life."

"I'll be back in about an hour."

"Can I play Grand Theft Auto?" the Captain asked hopefully.

"Knock yourself out," Tintin replied. "Keep Snowy here, though. I'll walk him when I get back."

xxx

It was remarkable how such a simple invention could bring so much joy to an old man. The Captain rubbed his hands with glee as he waited for the game to load up. He'd carried the PS3 downstairs, to the front sitting room – he preferred to sit in here: the couch was sinfully comfortable – and set it up. Calculus was in the corner, reading a book and talking his usual crap, but he was easy to tune out as the game started and Niko Bellic began his rampage.

It was therapeutic, he thought: running around Liberty City and punching hobos in the face with their own bottles of booze. Lucky bunch of coelocanths. He shot a glare at Calculus. "How are you coming with that cure?" he asked.

"Oh, about half past four," Calculus replied without looking up. "Although I think I should take it with my milk of magnesium."

"Good for you," the Captain muttered. He narrowed his eyes and promptly found, in the game, a small man with a black goatee, and shot him in the groin. "Ha ha! Take that!" A quick car-chase later found him over on the other side of the city, tossing Molotov cocktails around a park with reckless abandon. He'd just lined up a good one when the bottle exploded in his hand and killed him. He groaned and watched as the screen faded to black and Niko woke up in the hospital.

A bang made him jump. Was that… Was that a  _gunshot?_  He paused the game and muted the television. After a few seconds, he moved to the window and opened it, leaning out into the cool breeze of the summer evening.

 _Bang!_

There! Again! It was a gunshot, he was sure of it.

"Gunfire!" he said. "Tintin!"

"What?" Calculus asked.

Haddock tossed the controller on to the couch and grabbed his jacket. "Gunfire!" he shouted.  _"_ _Gunfire!_ _"_

"A fire?" Calculus sat up, worried. "Where?" But Haddock was gone. He tore from the house and dove into his car, gunning the engine. "If they've hurt him," he muttered, "I swear I'll… I'll go Niko Bellic on them!"

He shot down the road, heading towards the village and scanning the grassy verges. It was all country here, and most of the land on either side of the road sat as meadows. Copses of trees dotted the verges, providing leafy shade to the walkers and hikers that seemed to swarm the area during good weather. He turned a sharp corner – the Stop sign had been knocked down a few months ago, and the council still hadn't replaced it: it would cause a lot of accidents come winter – and hissed as his wheels screeched with the pressure. Ahead of him, a large black Mercedes had pulled in to the side of the road. Two men were searching along the verge carefully. One looked behind him, saw the Captain's car and called a warning to his companion. They leaped back in to the Merc and shot off.

The Captain put his foot down, and prepared to follow the strange car, when a red glint under a large birch tree caused him to slam on the brakes. He skidded to a halt, his hands gripping the steering wheel, and looked again.

It was Tintin's bike.

He swore and jumped out, almost falling over his seatbelt in his haste, and ran to the wreck of the bike.

It was mangled. Bullet holes riddled the back and one side of the bike, and the back wheel was shredded. It had come off the road – as evidenced by the skid-mark that marred the old tarmac – and hit the birch. "Oh Jesus," he said quietly, his stomach dropping suddenly. Turning back to the road, he faced the way the Merc had gone.  _"_ _Road-hogs!_ _"_ he roared.  _"_ _Bashi-bazouks!_ _Phylloxera!_ _"_ But they were long-gone, and his insults meant little.

He searched the verge himself, drawing closer to a small copse of trees. "Tintin!" he shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth.  _"_ _Tintin!_  Where are you?"

"Captain?" a cautious voice called. "Is that you?"

The Captain stopped and looked around. It was late in the evening by now, and the day had taken on a hazy, almost dream-like quality. "Tintin?" he asked. "Are you… Are you a ghost?"

"What?"

The Captain looked up. Sitting on a high branch of a pollard willow, Tintin was starting to laugh. "No! I'm not a ghost!" he said. "I just hid up here!"

The Captain's heart started again, and he sagged against the trunk. "Thank God for that," he said, his voice heavy with relief. "I thought I'd gone mad with grief or something. Are you all right?"

Tintin carefully clambered down. "I'm fine," he said, when he was back on solid ground. "I thought I was done for when they opened fire. Where's my bike?"

The Captain laid his hand awkwardly on Tintin's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said. "It didn't make it."

"No!" Tintin gasped and covered his mouth with his hands. "You're wrong: we can fix her."

"I'm sorry, but it looks like you'll need a new one. I'm very, very sorry."

Tintin cried out when he saw the wreck of the bike. "Svetlana!" he said mournfully. "Oh, Svetlana! What am I going to do without you? We've been through so much together!"

"It's always hard when your bike dies," the Captain consoled. "Come on: help me get her into the boot and we'll bring her home."

"Can I get a Lexus?" Tintin asked suddenly.

"Sure. Whatever."

They manhandled the corpse of Svetlana the motorbike into the expansive boot. One of her wheels stuck out, while her handlebars and the front wheel were twisted, giving the impression she was staring up at the late evening sky, watching the sunset-red bleed slowly through the darkening blue. Tintin gave her a fond pat on her fairing. "Poor Svetlana," he said. "She was a good bike."

"Yeah, sure," said the Captain.

They couldn't shut the boot – Svetlana was too big for that – so they began to drive slowly back towards the Hall. About half-way there, just before the blind corner, a fire-engine screamed by, sirens blaring. Tintin frowned. "That's headed for our place, isn't it?" he asked.

The Captain swore loudly. "Oh,  _come_  on!" he cried. "Give me a break!" He put his foot down and they sped home. As they reached the gates, the Captain slowed down marginally and executed a terrifying hand-break turn. For a moment – a moment that slowed down and inspired terror – Tintin was within high-fiving distance of the tall pillars of the Hall's gates. Then the moment passed and they tore along the drive, spraying gravel as they came to a stop just behind the fire-engine.

"What is it?" the Captain shouted as he jumped out of the car. "Where's the fire?"

"Where's the fire?" Calculus asked as he hurried down the steps where he'd been holding court with the terse crew of the fire-engine. "Where is it?"

"What fire?" the Captain asked. "Why's there a fire brigade here?"

"No, it's the fire brigade. You said there was a fire?" Calculus gripped the Captain's arm urgently. "Tell me the truth: is it my lab?"

"No, I said there was  _gunfire,_ " the Captain said.  _"_ _Gunfire!_ _"_  He turned to the unimpressed crew and grinned apologetically. "Sorry, false alarm."

"You do know there's a call-out charge, sir?"

"I'll get my cheque book," the Captain replied, glaring daggers at Calculus.

xxx

An hour later Tintin was packing up the Playstation. The Captain was sitting on the couch, his pipe perched in his mouth, while Calculus attempted to join the conversation. "It ends," the Captain promised. "It ends now. I've had enough, Tintin."

"I know," Tintin replied. He wrapped the wires around the game console and rested back on his haunches. "Somehow, this all revolves around Endaddine Akass. He planted his goons – the same two goons that tried to shoot me and run me off the road today – in an apartment over the gallery, and hooked them into the CCTV. Why, though? To spy on Fourcart? What has Fourcart to do with anything?"

"I swear you said there was a fire," Calculus said. He tapped one finger against the coffee table. "You said it distinctly: I heard it with my own ears."

"I must find out more about him," Tintin said softly. "I've tried the usual avenues: Google gave me nothing, and his Wikipedia page was a stub… Nobody remembers him before two years ago."

"Then we go directly to him," the Captain said firmly. "We go to him and get our answers. Where do we find the over-dressed windbag?"

"I assure you," Calculus continued, "that the way you ran out of here led credence to your claim of there being a fire. That is the only reason I called the fire brigade out. I wouldn't have done it, otherwise: they're a very busy organization and this sort of thing can be very dangerous. What if there was a real emergency somewhere else? Captain, you must be more careful."

"Oh, shut up you deaf old cyclotron! Where's my cure, eh? I've been sober for weeks. Months even."

"A cup of tea would be lovely, Captain, thank you. But that doesn't mean I'm letting you off the hook. You made me look very foolish."

"Great snakes!" Tintin wobbled with revelation, and almost lost his balance and toppled over. "I've got it!"

"Got what?" the Captain asked.

"I know where Akass is! Castafiore said she was going to sped some time with him, on Ischia."

"Yes, I hear she is," said Calculus. They glanced at him, mystified, then ignored him.

"Where's Ischia?" the Captain asked, baffled.

"Eh, Naples?"

"You want to fly to Naples."

"Yes!"

"When?"

Tintin shrugged. "Now? They say there's no time like the present."

The Captain rolled his eyes. "I'll start packing, you book the tickets."

"I'm already on it," Tintin replied as he whipped his mobile phone out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ezio is from Assassins Creed 2 and AC: Brotherhood, and AC: Revelations
> 
> The darkspawn, the broodmother, Loghain, Alistair and Sten are from Draogn Age: Origins, which is the game Tintin is playing on the PS3 (fun fact: trying to kill the broodmother on nightmare mode on a PS3 is frikkin' hard: after every new wave of 'spawn that teleport in, you have to individually go through the characters, switching from melee weapons to range, because the broodmother's tentacles hurt. Inevitably, during the few seconds it takes to pause, someone always wanders over to the broodmother with their sword, and gets smashed to pieces.)
> 
> Niko Bellic is from Grand Theft Auto 4. For those that think Tintin wouldn't have the personality to go on a mindless rampage through a computer game city, I dare you to work in a high-stress job and resist the urge to take it out on pixels. :(


	12. The world is a book, and those that do not travel read only one page" - St Augustine

The small boat pulled in to the sheltered harbour of Ischia bay and Tintin and the Captain disembarked. Tintin held Snowy tucked under his arm as he negotiated the steps down to the dock. The Captain was grumbling.

"Two  _thousand_  kilometres by air," he muttered, "and another two hours by boat, just to find Castafiore. We must be masochists."

The pleasant, thin road wound up along the side of a tall hill. The village was beautiful and small, and in the middle of it there was a large stone square, its streetlamps festooned with white fairy lights. The large fountain in the centre of the square glistened as the water rippled and sunlight reflected from the many coins that had been tossed into it. It was an easy-going tourist village, and the receptionist at the Hotel Regina, the hotel they were booked in to, greeted them with a bright smile. "Welcome,  _signori_ ," she said warmly.

"Tintin and Haddock," said Tintin, returning her smile. "We're booked in."

"Indeed. Welcome to Ischia. I hope you enjoy your stay here." She tapped at the computer before reaching under the desk for their key-cards. A moment later a bell-hop appeared to show them to their rooms.

"Very quickly," Tintin said suddenly. "I'm sorry, but do you happen to know where Mr Akass lives?"

"Ah, I can do better than that," she said cheerily. "I can show you. Come." She led them back to the front door and stepped outside. They followed her to the centre of the square, which was in front of the hotel, and pointed to the road that led north. "Do you see that villa there? The yellow-brick one, just set back from the road? That is where you will find Mr Akass. You know the famous diva has arrived?"

"La Castafiore? Yes, we're friends of hers," Tintin replied.

"I know this," she said with a grin. "I read the papers, Mr Tintin. Would you like me to send a message to the villa? I can let them know you've arrived. You are here for his party, yes?"

"That won't be necessary," he said. "We want to surprise Madame Castafiore. Can you see to it that our bags get to our rooms?"

"Of course sir."

The Captain and Tintin made their way carefully along the road, with Snowy gratefully gambolling along beside them. When they neared the villa, and were out of sight of the village square, they found some cover and began to spy on the house.

"Blistering barnacles," the Captain said. He handed his binoculars to Tintin. "That blasted Ramó Nash is there too!"

"He is?" Tintin took the binoculars and took a look. "So he is. I wonder why? One would think he would be too busy with his work to travel to Italy."

"Who knows? He's an artist. Do they even qualify as people these days?"

"We have to get in there," Tintin mused.

"We can talk to Castafiore. She'll get us in."

"I'd prefer to get in unnoticed, if you catch my drift."

"Ah, a little breaking and entering. I'm not sure if I can condone that."

"It means we don't have to talk to Castafiore," Tintin pointed out.

"I'm in," the Captain said quickly. "I'll meet you back here with a baseball bat and a crowbar."

"Steady on! Let's head back to the hotel: I need time to think."

xxx

Tintin opened the windows in his room, and the fresh, sea-tinged air washed over him, revitalising him. He felt better than he had in a long time. For the first time since this had started, he had the upper hand. Nobody knew he was here and poking around, so at last he was one step ahead. Plus, the documents de Villars had promised to send had arrived about an hour before they'd left Belgium, meaning that the book was sorted and ready to be edited by Flipke. It would be on sale in time for Christmas, and the proceeds would help fund an epic New Year's eve celebration.

What a beautiful view. The advantage to the village's height was a spectacular panorama of the ocean and the small, sheltered bay. He could see two large yachts parked off the island, and a few fishing boats scudded the waves briskly. The sky was a pure, amazing blue and clear of clouds for as far as the eye could see.

He leaned against the window frame and enjoyed the solitude and the peace that had settled over him. Snowy was snoozing in a patch of sunlight, and the Captain was in his own room. It was a rare moment of solitude in his busy life, and he resolved there and then that he would try harder to create more moments like this.

The old bakelite phone that sat beside the bed began to ring. Assuming it was the Captain, Tintin answered quickly. "Hello," he said.

"Listen carefully," said the voice on the other end, and Tintin found himself stiffening. He was  _sure_  he knew that voice…

"There is a boat leaving in two hours," the voice said. "I strongly advise that you take it. The climate on Ischia doesn't suit you at all. In fact, it could be very bad for your health."

Tintin froze as the line died and the dial-tone picked up. "Crumbs," he whispered. "I know that voice. I  _know_  that voice…" Tutting absently, he left his room, Snowy trailing after him, and went to the Captain's, knocking before he entered.

"Come in," the Captain called. "Oh, it's you. What's up?"

"I just got an anonymous phone call," Tintin said flatly. "Someone wants us to leave. Now." His upper-hand dissolved in smoke, and he found himself ten steps behind again.

"But who knows we're here?" the Captain asked with a frown.

"I don't know, but news can travel fast on an island this small. And as the receptionist said, they read the papers. They know who we are."

"Well, one thing for sure: we can't let Castafiore know we're here. We must avoid that at all costs."

The telephone beside the bed began to ring, and Tintin and the Captain stared at it cautiously for a few seconds. With a shake of his head, the Captain reached out and picked it up. "Hello?" he said warily. His eyes widened and he took the receiver away from his ear, smothering it against his jersey. "It's  _her!_ " he hissed. "It's only sodding Castafiore! Blistering barnacles, what do I do?"

"Talk to her?" Tintin offered with a shrug.

"Oh, bugger." He held the receiver to his ear and smiled in a pained way. "My dear friend," he said. "But how on earth did you know we were here?"

"Aah! You old slyboots!" La Castafiore purred. "Irma recognised you! She was talking a walk down by the landing stage, and she saw you arrive. You absolutely  _must_  come to see me, Captain Karlock. The Master is the most ado-o-orable man! You absolutely  _have_  to meet him."

Tintin collapsed into an armchair and watched the Captain, grinning at his discomfort.

"Yes," he was saying. "I'm sure I… No, I mean, yes… Yes… Yes.. Of course. I promise."

"He's gone to Rome for a few days," Castafiore continued, "but he'll be delighted to meet you when he returns. No, no, no, the friends of our friends are our friends too,  _caro_ _mio!_   _Ciao!_ "

The Captain hung up and sank weakly onto the bed. "Phew!" he said.

"I think this alters everything," Tintin said sweetly.

"I'll say. She's sending a carriage for us."

"A carriage? Oh, crumbs." Tintin rubbed at his forehead distractedly. "There goes our low profile, too."


	13. You know, we've got to do it some day: throw away all the guns and invite all the jokers from the North and the South in here for a cocktail party. Last man standing on his feet at the end wins the war! - Captain Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce

Soft music floated through the doors as the footman – complete with eighteenth century dress – bowed and showed them in. Neither had brought a suit with them, instead opting for neat trousers and the least crumpled-looking button-down shirt they could find. While the Captain had at least been able to shine his black boots so they looked respectable, Tintin had been stymied, and was forced to wear a plain pair of white tennis shoes that had been tucked into the bottom of his suitcase. They were, sadly, still under-dressed. Women floated around in short cocktail dresses and high-heels, their hair elegantly teased in to up-styles that looked to be held in place by gallons of hairspray – most were keeping a wary distance from the tiki torches that blazed in brass candle sticks – while the men were more casually – yet expensively - dressed with open shirts and linen suits.

The buzz of conversation dropped for a second as La Castafiore, resplendent in a long, deep turquoise summer dress, swooped out of the crowd, her arms held open to them both. "Aaaah! My dear, dear friends!  _Carissimi!_  Come, come, I simply must introduce you to everyone…" She seized their hands and pulled them over to where a tall, elegant woman dressed in a simple black dress stood with her husband and two other men.

"Angelina, darling, let me present Skipper Drydock, one of my closest friends. He's a real old sea-dog, you know. Skipper Drydock, This is Angelina Jolie…"

It only bloody was. While Tintin was momentarily stunned at meeting such a famous, beautiful woman, he was also aware that comedy gold was about to happen. True to form, the Captain didn't disappoint. Recovering less-well than Tintin, the Captain managed a strangled; "Madam!" and attempted to bow. At the same time, Ms. Jolie raised her hand for him to shake, and slapped him right in the mouth. While Tintin attempted to smother his laughter, gratified to see he wasn't the only person giggling, La Castafiore began another commentary.

"My dear friend," she said, clasping a mortified Angelina on the arm, "how could you have guessed that such a simple sea man knew how to kiss hands?" Overcome by the use of the words 'man' and 'sea', Tintin ducked away. He put Snowy down on the floor – there were other dogs wandering around, and he trusted Snowy not to be the cause of any trouble… Usually – and took stock of the room. There were a great many famous faces there, and a few he recognised from the financial pages of the bigger newspapers, but dotted among the guests were a couple of men that stuck out: bulky men in dark suits and sunglasses who hung back from the crowd, trying to remain inconspicuous.

He accepted a glass of wine from a passing waiter and sniffed at it experimentally. "That's not how one usually tests the bouquette," said a voice behind him. He turned and found Ramó Nash, just as under-dressed as usual, with a bottle of Coors in his hand. He glanced around nervously. "What are you doing here?"

"Bianca Castafiore invited us," Tintin replied. He observed Nash critically, his face plastered with an open, affable expression. "We're old friends, you know." The artist was jittery. Tintin could feel anxiety, pouring like waves from him. But what exactly had him so on edge?

"Yes, I know, but I didn't think she'd be so stupid as to bring you of all people here," Nash snapped. "You must go at once."

"The last boat has already left," Tintin replied. "But I think you already know that. Did you phone me?"

"Yes. You should have taken my warning and gone. I can't protect you here."

"I don't need you to," Tintin snapped. "Don't presume I'm helpless, Mr Nash. That's a fatal mistake."

"Don't be an ass!" Nash hissed. "You don't know who you're dealing with. You don't even know  _what_  you're dealing with."

Tintin laughed. "This isn't my first time on the merry-go-round, Mr Nash. If you want to continue with your life,  _you_  leave this place. Otherwise, I'll bring you down too."

For a moment, Nash looked like he was going to grab Tintin and haul him bodily from the room. His empty hand bunched into a fist as he began to move forward, but a hasty glance up revealed La Castafiore bearing down on them like a well-meaning bird of prey. He quickly recovered himself, and forced a small smile at her. "Madame," he said calmly. His eyes darted to Tintin, who knew enough to play along.

"Now," La Castafiore was saying, "you know darling Ramó of course, and our own dear Tintin, but have you met Mr Scorses?"

Tintin quickly melted back into the crowd, letting the Captain take the brunt of Castafiore's attention. Unfortunately for Nash, he too was caught up in her wake, but he shot a final, furious glare at Tintin as the young reporter stepped backwards into a small group of people and disappeared from Castafiore's sight.

He made his way to the wall, where he discretely observed the room. Suddenly, his attention was drawn to the window, which showed a spectacular view of the surrounding countryside as the sun set overhead. Standing near the end of the window, over by the floor-length curtains, were two men he knew well. Oh, he knew them  _very_  well: they'd tried to run him over, shot him, and they'd killed his beloved Svetlana.

 _Svetlana!_ Her death would be avenged…

Keeping out of their sight, he slunk around the room until he was standing beside them, almost shoulder to shoulder with the tall, thuggishly dressed one, and cleared his throat. Both men jumped and looked at him, and although the smaller, primly-dressed man's eyes were obscured by his sunglasses, the shock could clearly be seen in the other man's eyes.

"Good evening, gentlemen," Tintin said sweetly. He flashed them a happy smile. "What a pleasant party, no?" He left them then, staring after him as though they had seen a ghost, and rejoined the Captain, who had managed to extract himself from Castafiore's tender embrace.

"Having a nice time?" Tintin asked.

"Thundering typhoons, don't leave me alone with that woman!" the Captain hissed.

"Sorry, Captain, but you were the perfect distraction."

"Glad I could be of service," the Captain said sourly. "What did you find out?"

"Akass isn't in Rome: I'd bet my life on it. His two bodyguards – the ones that have been trying to kill me, and who stuck so close to him during his show in Brussels – are both here. He's not the type of man who'd leave his pet gorillas behind."

"Can we get the hell out of here now?" the Captain begged.

"Yes, we should leave. We'll tell Castafiore we're leaving on the first boat tomorrow morning, then we'll hide out in the hotel all day. That way, when we start investigating tomorrow, our presence will be a surprise."

"I don't care, as long as we can leave. Oh God! She's back! Abandon ship!" The Captain turned and walked into a plant in his haste to get away.

"My friends, there you are!" Castafiore hove into view. "Where did you get to?" she asked as she slipped an arm around Tintin's shoulders. "The Americans are dying to meet you, you know. You fascinate them. Come, come."

"Actually, Signora, I'm afraid it's getting rather late," he replied apologetically. "Most of the guests are leaving, and I think it's time that we did the same."

"Nonsense, the night is still young!"

"A-ha!" he laughed nervously. "Perhaps I lack stamina. I know the Captain does."

"Do I?" the Captain asked, genuinely interested. He'd always thought his stamina was quite good.

Tintin kicked his ankle. "Yes," he said firmly, as the Captain stifled a yowl. "Your stamina is bad, and you should feel bad. It's time to go back to the hotel, isn't it?"

"Oh, er, yes," said the Captain. "I'm… um… old, and all of that." He waved his hand vaguely, and Tintin had to resist the urge to roll his eyes.

"Then you will stay here tonight!" Castafiore clapped her hands closed. "It is settled," she declared. "I shall show you to your rooms myself."

"Madam." Ramó Nash appeared, his face clearly alarmed. "Perhaps it would be better if your friends" –

"Nonsense! Come, Ramó, we shall drink wine into the small hours and enjoy the beauty of the island!"

Tintin shot a grin at Nash as Castafiore led the Captain and he away. He wasn't sure what Nash was involved in, but the artist was almost terrified at Tintin's presence on the island. Whatever was going on, Nash was the weak link. He looked like a man about to break; worse, even, than when his oldest friend, Fourcart, had died. If anyone would crack and reveal all, it would be the artist. All thoughts of investigating tonight swiftly flew from Tintin's mind: he would leave the night to Nash. Let the man worry and sweat while Tintin slept: fear and exhaustion would do more to Nash than bullying or cajoling.

xxx

Tintin slept, his door bared and his window securely locked. Snowy had curled into a ball on top of the blanket, a comforting lump snuggled against his stomach. When he awoke, it was still dark outside, but his hip was starting to complain. He hadn't taken any painkillers since he'd left Belgium, fearing they would dull his senses. He needed his wits about him, and medicating himself wasn't the brightest thing to do. He winced as he sat up and pulled his t-shirt up. Moving to the window, he used the moonlight to check his bandage, but regardless of the steady ache he could see that the wound hadn't opened or started to bleed again. He sighed and prodded carefully around the actual bullet hole. The skin around it had bruised, affording him another measure of pain.

A sudden noise distracted him. He stiffened, his finger milimeters from the bandage, and looked outside. He had heard a muffled thump, he was sure of it, and as he carefully craned his neck he could see that down below, in the yard at the back of the house, the door of one of the many out-buildings had been opened, and a small team of men were stacking crates. As he watched, two more came out, stacked more crates on top of the ones that were there, and went back inside the building. A second later, an engine rumbled to life and a small van appeared, reversing carefully until it stopped close to where the crates were stacked.

"Stay here, boy." Tintin pulled on his tennis shoes and crept out, closing the door on Snowy's face. He loved his dog, but he needed to keep completely silent now, and he couldn't trust that the dog wouldn't go for anyone.

He crept downstairs and made his way to the back of the house, until he found a side-door that opened at the far end of the yard. Keeping behind the house, he peered around the corner and watched as the men loaded the van. As soon as they were finished, one banged softly on the side of the van and it took off, starting slowly and coasting down the natural slope of the driveway until it passed the house and turned onto the road. Then, he heard the engine revving as the van picked up speed, and it drove away.

He watched the men walk back into the out-building. They had left the door open, but after five minutes they still hadn't returned or closed it. Making up his mind, and keeping low, Tintin hurried over to it and peered carefully inside. Seeing no guards, he went in.

The door opened onto a long, single-story room. Paintings hung from every wall, and more were propped up against the walls, leaning crazily. "Oh!" he breathed, his eyes finding the closest one to him. "A Modigliani!" He reached out and let the tips of his fingers brush gently over the canvas, but when he looked down, he could see paint staining his fingers. "It's still wet," he whispered. He moved down along the row, naming the artist's that had painted the pictures as he went. "Léger; Renoir; Picasso, I'm sure of it; Gauguin, Monet… All fakes! It's incredible: a perfect factory for forging pictures. They're perfect imitations too… But who painted them, I wonder?"

"Ah, but you already know who did them, don't you?" a voice asked. Tintin spun around and found Endaddine Akass standing in the doorway, barring the way out. His two bodyguards stood either side, staring at Tintin impassively.

"Nash," Tintin said flatly. Of course: Nash was a forger. Akass must be selling the paintings on for him.

"Yes, our dear Ramó Nash," Akass agreed genially. "Poor Nash, who just can't stop himself. Poor Nash, who doesn't  _want_  to stop himself. So we let him create his morbid Alph-Art, and we help him hide the bodies. Hands up, Mr Tintin: I believe you are my prisoner."


	14. Fraud is the homage that force pays to reason - Charles Curtis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hergé's book ends here. From this point on, what you are reading is purely from my own imagination. This won't end the way Hergé wanted it to end: this is the story I've been writing in my own head for the last few years. Because I can't possibly hope to write like Hergé, I'm not even going to try to attempt it.
> 
> WARNING! The story gets a LOT darker from this point on.

_Why_ _didn_ _'_ _t_ _I_ _bring_ _Snowy?_  Tintin thought. He put his hands up and watched, warily, as the thuggish bodyguard approached, a gun in one hand and a pair of handcuffs in the other.

"Turn around," the man said gruffly. Tintin did as he was told, and felt his arms pulled down and secured behind his back as the cuffs snapped into place. His hip gave a painful twinge and he winced as he was pushed forward, towards a second door at the back of the room.

"What bodies?" he asked.

"Ah, so you still haven't figured it out?" Akass asked, his voice gleeful. "So Nash was right: it was the perfect hiding place. Put them in plain sight."

Tintin's heart started to beat painfully. "What bodies?" he asked again, his voice heavy with dread.

"Poor Nash. And Poor Fourcart. They were so weak, Mr Tintin. They found each other – such monsters often do – and together they murdered their way around Europe" –

"Oh God." Light had dawned, and Tintin's stomach twisted unpleasantly. "They're not  _just_ sculptures, are they?"

"No, Mr Tintin, they're not."

They were in a second room, one that was shorter than the first. More paintings hung, in the process of drying, from these walls, or stretched out on tarpaulin on the floor. There was what appeared to be a table in the centre of the room, and Ramó Nash stood beside it. He was.. bending  _over_  it, and appeared to be looking  _in to_  it. Tintin struggled a little, but one of the men had his arm in a vice-like grip, and propelled him forward. Nash looked up when he heard the small struggle.

"What's he doing here?" he asked, his voice alarmed.

"Mr Tintin knows too much," Akass said devilishly. "I was just telling him about your predilection, Ramó. You know: how you and Fourcart murdered all these women. These young girls. And displayed them for all to see. Most macabre, don't you think, Tintin?"

"What have you done?" Tintin asked Nash.

The artist shook his head. "It wasn't supposed to happen," he said desperately. "It was an accident."

"An accident?" Even though he was severely out-numbered and the odds were against him, Tintin couldn't stop himself from exploding with disgust. "There's 26 letters in the alphabet! Most of your 'sculptures' are of two girls! How many accidents could that be! So where do you fit into this?" He rounded on Akass, taking grim pleasure in the man's flash of surprise. "What happened? You found out, yes? Did he come to you, looking for help? You're a man of healing, after all: if anyone could help him, it would be you. What did you do? Threaten to reveal his secret if he didn't work for you?"

"Exactly," Akass said coolly. "It turns out that Ramó isn't fond of the idea of jail, and I am a complete fraud, my boy. I can't 'heal' anyone.  _But_  I can use a forger. I keep Ramó's secret, and he supplies me with fake paintings."

"Then what about Monastir?" Tintin snapped. "He was the first to die. Well," He shot a disgusted look at Nash, "he was the first person connected to the art world to die. What did he do? Did he figure you out?"

"Nonsense! He was giving us the licenses of authenticity!" Akass looked smug. "We needed the paintings authenticated, if we wanted to sell them. Alas, he decided to blackmail me – me! – so I had him removed from the game."

"And Fourcart? Your  _partner-in-crime_." He spat the words at Nash, who hung his head. "What did he do, to deserve such a death? Beside the obvious, that is."

"He grew a conscience," Akass answered. "He threatened to expose the whole thing, to you."

 _Of_ _course._ _That_ _was_ _the_ _meaning_ _of_ _Fourcart_ _'_ _s_ _phone_ _call;_ _that_ _was_ _why_ _he_ _'_ _d_ _mentioned_ _the_ _amount_ _of_ _people_ _that_ _disappeared_ _travelling_ _through_ _Europe,_ _and_ _that_ _was_ _why_ _he_ _'_ _d_ _hidden_ _the_ _fact_ _that_ _he_ _had_ _a_ _meeting_ _with_ _Tintin_ _for_ _the_ _day_ _of_ _his_ _death:_ _he_ _didn_ _'_ _t_ _want_ _any_ _of_ _them_ _to_ _know_ _he_ _was_ _going_ _to_ _spill_ _the_ _beans._ _He_ _must_ _have_ _phoned_ _Tintin_ _using_ _the_ _phone_ _at_ _the_ _front_ _desk,_ _right_ _under_ _the_ _security_ _camera._ _If_ _the_ _camera_ _had_ _sound,_ _they_ _would_ _have_ _heard_ _the_ _call_ _and_ _understood_ _at_ _once_ _what_ _he_ _meant_ _to_ _do._

"You're despicable," Tintin said coldly. "I've seen a lot of terrible things in my time, but I think this is in a league of its own. And you're just as culpable, Akass."

"You know, for a prisoner you're awful uppity," Akass said thoughtfully. "Ramó, get on with it, will you? You have another sculpture to do tonight. This time, though, it's for my own private collection."

Nash looked at Tintin and shrugged, before turning away. He went to a large barrel that hulked along the wall behind him, and turned a knob. Something gurgled unpleasantly as the tank kicked into life with a low growl.

"Show him," Akass said suddenly. He gestured to the guard that held Tintin's arm. "I want him to know exactly what's going to happen to him."

Tintin found himself pushed forward, and he saw that he had been wrong. Nash hadn't been standing at a table: he'd been standing in front of a tank. Inside, an olive-skinned girl lay. She was dressed sparsely, in a dark black shift. Her feet were bare, and her hands rested over her mouth. He could see the dark bruises around her bare wrists and ankles. He shook his head at her senseless death. "You monster," he said quietly, looking up at Nash. He looked back down, meaning to say a prayer for her, and realised that her eyes were now staring at him.

She was alive.

It hit him like a brick to the face, and his breathing stopped for a moment. All he could hear was the sound of his own blood thundering in his ears. He looked back at Nash, who was watching the girl's face. "What are you doing?" Tintin asked, horrified. "She's still alive. Nash.  _Nash!_ " The liquid from the barrel was pouring into the tank, pooling sluggishly around the girl. Her terrified eyes looked all around, but she didn't move an inch.

"It's a marvellous thing, you know," Akass was saying. Tintin could just hear him over his own screams. "He sedates them first, then poses them" –

"They're more supple alive than dead," Nash interrupted. He was watching the girl avidly as the liquid rose around her. "I can't pose them once rigour mortis sets in."

"You asshole! She's still alive, Nash! She's still alive! Stop this! Make it stop!"

"And then he pours this ingenious liquid in on top of them," Akass continued, ignoring Tintin's struggles. "It kills them, of course, but it preserves them perfectly. You, my dear boy, will know exactly what it feels like: Ramó is going to pour his special liquid over you too, and you'll become a sculpture. I may even get you authenticated by an expert. No, perhaps not: you're too well known, aren't you? No, your body will be put in an attic somewhere. Somewhere dark and out of the way, and no one will ever know what happened to you. Like all the others, you'll just be another statistic. Just another missing youth in Europe."

Nash was watching them carefully. "He'll need to be sedated," he said quietly. He was looking from Akass to Tintin. All his former anxiety was gone, replaced with a new kind of strength and determination. "Yes," he said, nodding. "He'll have to be sedated."

The two guards descended on Tintin. He found himself picked up bodily as one grabbed his legs, and dumped on top of the tank. They held him down – thankfully, he was on his back: he wasn't able to see what was happening underneath him – as Nash disappeared for a second, reappearing with a syringe. "Keep him quiet," Nash said, and a hand clamped itself over Tintin's mouth. His head was twisted to the side and he fought with all his strength as he felt the sharp prick of the needle as it entered his skin.

But Nash knew what he was doing, and a few seconds later nobody was holding Tintin down. He lay, curled on his side, dispassionately watching as the liquid in the tank below him finally covered the girl's face and she began to drown.

He felt like he was floating. He couldn't move his body if he tried – hell, he couldn't feel his arms and legs any more, and he wasn't sure but it felt as though his head had left too – and sound seemed to come to him as though it was travelling a long distance. He concentrated, narrowing his eyes, as Akass's lips moved.

"I want to watch," Akass said urgently. "I want to watch his death. It would be… gratifying, I think."

"Fine," Nash snapped. He was out of sight. He was somewhere… Oh, he was somewhere, but Tintin couldn't move to find him. "Just send your men away."

Akass dismissed his men with a curt gesture. Tintin watched them go, his mind wandering.  _They_ _killed_ _Svetlana._  He tried to say it out-loud, but nothing came out except for a small groan. He felt something move against his forehead, and after a monumental effort of thought, realised it was Nash smoothing his hair away from his eyes.

"I told you to leave," the artist said sadly.

 _Yes,_ _you_ _did_. Tintin wanted to agree with him, but simply couldn't find the strength. His mind started to get a bit muddled now. Akass was watching him curiously, dispassionately, but it almost looked as though he was another person now. Someone Tintin might have recognised, but couldn't place yet. Akass's face was shifting back and forth between his public face – the face everyone saw – and a private face – a face that nobody knew. Then Nash was behind him. Standing behind Akass. Akass was saying something, but all Tintin could see was the syringe Nash held. He lifted it and it almost looked as though he pressed it into Akass's skin.

Akass was shouting. Or was he? It was hard to tell: everything was going black. But it looked as though Akass was shouting. He was holding one hand against his neck and shouting at Nash, who didn't look at all interested. Akass dropped to the ground and Nash stepped over the body.

He bent over Tintin. "I'll protect you," he promised.


	15. Silence may be golden, but Duct Tape is silver – old internet saying

Tintin opened his eyes to darkness. It took a few seconds to adjust to the situation, and his pounding headache and dry, parched throat weren't helping. However, a pounding headache and a dry, parched throat indicated that he was still alive, and on the face of things that could be counted as a huge bonus. Encouraged by his continual alive-ness, he took careful stock of his surroundings.

He was lying on his side in a small, cramped, dark place. A dark place that moved; a muted roar echoed dimly around him. Probably the trunk of a car, was his best guess. He could feel heavy duct tape over his mouth, and his hands were tied tightly behind his back with more of the same. When he moved his legs experimentally, he realised his ankles were tied together too, and when he kicked out to try and figure out how small the space was, he realised he was barefoot.

He whimpered at the sudden blossoming of pain in his toes. They had connected hard with the side of the trunk, but the sharp pain helped focus his mind and clear the fog the drug had left as it wore off. He took a few deep breaths to steady his racing heart, but the tape over his mouth was making his breathing more difficult, and the air in the trunk was already turning stale. He was breathing hard and sweating like a race horse.

He needed to stay calm, he knew: he had to keep his wits about him if he wanted to walk away from this in one piece. An icy hand clutched at his spine as his treacherous brain reminded him that Nash was a murderer. Not just any murderer: but a serial killer, from the looks of things.

He wondered how many young women had lain here, in the same position, thinking the same desperate thoughts about escape. Had they searched, as he was searching, for a sharp edge to cut their bonds? He wondered how many of them had succeeded.

He turned onto his back with a grunt and ignored the pain that shot through his arms as they took the brunt of his weight. He pulled his legs up, until his feet were flat on the ground, and pushed against the top of the trunk with his knees, but that was futile: there was no give. With another grunt he rolled back over, so that he was on his other side facing out – or where 'out' should be – and began to search.

He'd heard some story a couple of times – oh, in a Facebook forwarded message, through email, and once from Some Guy In The Pub who swore it was true: some woman was kidnapped from the car-park of a shopping centre, but she'd managed to knock the back lights out from inside the trunk, and attract the attention of the car behind her by sticking her hand out and waving. But all Tintin could see was the slightly rough felt-like material that coated the inside of the trunk. He swallowed the urge to scream in frustration: either that story was bullshit or Nash had heard it and covered up the lights in the trunk.

His hip hurt too much to keep lying on it like that, so he struggled back onto his other side and waited, his eyes squeezed shut, until the pain and the accompanying burst of nausea died away. When he was sure he wasn't going to be sick, he opened his eyes and looked around again, but there didn't appear to be anything else in the trunk with him. He carefully felt his way into the bottom corners with his feet – he could see nothing up near his head – but there was nothing there either. There wasn't even a spare tyre or a car-jack he could use to help tear the tape that held his wrists together.

He started to keen softly, and hated himself for it. He hated the weakness it showed, and he hated the panic that washed over him. It was real, genuine fear now, and it was clutching as his heart and tightening its grip. He knew –  _knew_ – that he needed to keep a lid on it. He needed to stay calm and start working on a way to free his wrists, but even as a calm, collected inner-voice was telling him this, another had thrown its hands in the air and declared; "Fuck it!", and without fully realising it he had started scream as best he could, and hammer the soles of his feet against the bottom of the trunk as his fear took over.

It didn't take long for Nash – or whoever was driving – to notice, and Tintin felt the car begin to slow down before it stopped completely. He rocked a little with the jolt and managed to calm down a little. He heard a door open and slam shut. He had a few seconds to compose himself so he rolled onto his back again and readied his legs: when the lid of the trunk opened, he was going to kick the  _hell_  out of whoever was there.

He heard the dull  _clunk_  as the trunk was unlocked and the click as a button was pressed on the outside. The trunk opened a crack, flooding the space with weak light that made Tintin gasp and recoil, wincing, but he forced his eyes to stay open. He watched as fingers curled around the lid of the trunk and pulled it up. It took all of his willpower to stop his eyes from closing, but as soon as he felt fresh air wash over him he kicked out viciously…

… And hit nothing.

Nash was standing close to Tintin's head, watching the boy's attempt with a little amusement. "I see you're awake," he said mildly.

Tintin spat obscenities that were swallowed by the gag. He narrowed his eyes and glared at Nash. The sky behind the man was tinged with red, but was in sunrise or sunset? It if was dawn, there was a good chance they were still on Ischia. If it was rolling on to night… Well, Ischia wasn't exactly big enough to travel all day by car and not reach your destination. They could be anywhere.

Nash leaned over. "You're bleeding," he said, pointing to Tintin's hip. "You've opened that wound again."

Tintin stayed silent. He needed Nash to get within reach of his legs, if wanted to have any chance of escaping now.  _Where_ _the_ _hell_ _is_ _the_ _traffic?_  his mind screamed at him. This road was completely deserted, and he didn't remember hearing any other cars passing them since he had woken up.

Nash moved quickly, taking Tintin by surprise. He pushed down on the re-opened wound and Tintin screamed as  _agony_  lanced through his body. Then, while his captive was still distracted, Nash flipped Tintin onto his uninjured side, so he was facing away. Grasping the boy's hair, he pulled until Tintin was forced to arch his back and tilt his head back. It was only then that Tintin saw the rag Nash held in his left hand, and as soon as it was clamped over his nose Tintin recognised the curiously sweet smell of chloroform.

He struggled as hard as he could, bucking his body and trying to throw Nash off, but the man held a good fistful of hair, holding Tintin's head almost still. The chloroform worked its magic quickly, and Tintin felt his head beginning to reel. It was hopeless, he realised as drifted back into darkness.

xxx

The Captain had been pacing all day. It felt like a lifetime. He'd run out of tobacco very early that morning – he always smoked more when he was stressed out – and by the time the first newsagents in the village had opened he'd been ready to tear someone's – anyone's – head off.

He'd called the police as soon as he'd discovered that Tintin was missing, and a thorough search of the villa and its many out-buildings had yielded an unconscious Akass; a small arsenal of weapons; a variety of paintings for some reason; and a dead body. It was at this point that the Captain had run out of tobacco.

By the time Interpol had arrived, Akass was beginning to recover, and he'd been transferred to the sleepy-looking village police station as soon as the local doctor had given him the all-clear. Much to his frustration, the Captain hadn't been allowed near Akass. He just needed a few minutes alone with the man, but Thompson and Thomson had refused. With nothing else to do, and with Bianca Castafiore off with a large search party that were combing the island for any sign of Tintin, the Captain had ended up pacing up and down outside the police station as he smoked his way through almost sixty of Mr Player's finest blue label cigarettes.

He hadn't smoked Johnny Blue in years, and his throat felt raw, like he'd been shouting all day. Blistering barnacles, he hadn't bought a packet of fags in over ten years, not since he had switched to his pipe, but this was starting to feel like one of  _those_  days, and it wasn't as if he could knock back a belt of whisky to steady his nerves and take the edge off. His mother – God rest her – had  _hated_ his smoking, but he was sure she'd forgive him now, considering the circumstances. He tossed the butt and ground it out underfoot as he ran his hand tiredly over his face, scratching at his whiskers.

 _Please,_ _mum,_  he thought desperately,  _if_ _you_ _'_ _re_ _in_ _Heaven,_ _look_ _after_ _my_ _boy._ _Make_ _sure_ _nothing_ _bad_ _happens_ _to_ _him._ _Cheers._

The door of the police station opened and the Thompsons stepped out. The heat had been hellish today, especially inside the police station where there was no working air conditioner. Both men had discarded their heavy black jackets and their matching waistcoats hung open to show the heavy stains of sweat on their formerly white shirts. One of them – the Captain couldn't really tell them apart, not like Tintin could: hell, the Captain had been shocked to learn the two men weren't actually related – sighed heavily and sat down at the top of the steps, clearly relieved to be out in the cooler evening air. The other held his hat in both hands, his jacket hanging from the crook of his right arm, and cleared his throat nervously.

"Well?" the Captain asked.

Thomson or Thompson shook his head. "He still isn't talking. He… er, he's asked for a lawyer. One will be here soon. About an hour or so."

"And once that happens, we stand less chance of finding out what's going on," the other added.

The Captain clenched his fists and pressed them against his eyes, trying to resist the urge to punch something. He counted to ten, but didn't feel any calmer. "Five minutes," he begged. "Just five minutes with him,  _please!_ _"_

"You can't kill him," Thompson warned.

The Captain's heart skipped a beat. "Scout's honour," he said, holding up his left hand in what he hoped was a scout's salute.

The Thompsons exchanged a wary look. Thomson – who was still sitting down – shrugged. "It won't count as police brutality," he said.

"I'm not a copper," the Captain agreed.

"Do you have any weapons?" Thompson asked.

"Nope, none at all. I'll give him a sporting chance."

"Fine. Leave us your smokes and a lighter. You have as long as it takes for us to finish a cigarette." Thompson tossed a set of keys to the Captain, who handed over the last of his cigarettes and a small plastic lighter. "You are kings among men," he said warmly as he dashed into the police station.

"Did you hear something, Thomson?" Thompson asked.

"No, I didn't hear anything: I was too busy enjoying this cigarette," Thomson replied.

"Oh dear, I believe I have misplaced the keys to the interrogation room."

"Can't be helped, my dear Thompson: we'll look for them in a minute.


	16. I don't pray because I don't want to bore God- Orson Wells

It didn't take any time to find Akass, who was sitting at a table in the tiny room that served as the interrogation room. The Captain noted the smug smile Akass sported just before he closed the distance and drove his fist into the other mans face. "Where's Tintin?" he asked.

"Jesus!" Akass squawked.

The Captain knocked Akass's stupid fez off the man's head, grabbed a fistful of hair, and bounced his face off the table top. "I already found Jesus," he replied calmly. "He was hiding in my garden shed. Now I'm looking for Tintin." Keeping his hand fisted in Akass's hair, he pushed the other man's face into the table. "Where is he?"

"Go to hell!"

Wordlessly, the Captain dragged Akass out of his chair and hit him viciously in the kidneys. Akass dropped like a stone, winded, and the Captain let go of his hair. Bracing himself against the wall, he kicked Akass in the stomach.

"Where is he? What did you do to him?"

"Jesus! I don't know! I don't know!"

"Wrong answer." The Captain took a hold of Akass's robes and dragged him to his knees before slugging him in the face again. He felt, rather than heard, the satisfying pop as Akass's nose broke.

"That's enough, Captain," one of the Thompsons said. Blinking, the Captain turned around. He hadn't even heard them come in; he'd been so absorbed in Akass.

"I don't know, I swear! Jesus, my nose!" Akass was on his knees, crying now. Magically, his Greek accent had disappeared, and was replaced by a harsher American accent. "Nash turned on me, that son of a bitch, I swear. I don't know what he did with the kid."

"Nash?" the Captain asked, startled. He looked over at the Thompsons. "Ramó Nash?" Now that he thought of it, he didn't remember seeing Nash all day, and when Bianca was setting up the search party, which had included a lot of the guests that had stayed the night at the villa, Nash hadn't been among them.

"The artist?" Thomson sat down and turned the tape recorder on. "Interview resumed at" – he paused to check his watch – "8.17pm. Mr Akass has voluntarily agreed to continue without a solicitor present. Sit down, sir."

The request was so polite, Akass found himself struggling to his feet and sitting down across from them. Thomson was looking back, his face blank, while Thompson took a piece of plain white paper from a stack of it and placed it on the table. He was poised, pen in hand, waiting to write down whatever Akass said.

"Now, Mr Akass," Thomson said, "is that your real name?"

"No," Akass said morosely. "My name is Steve Vine."

"And you're not Greek, are you Mr Vine?"

"No. I'm from Hoboken, New Jersey."

"What?" the Captain exclaimed. "What is this?"

"That's enough, Captain," Thomson warned. He went to the door and called out to the nervous constable beyond; "See if you can find any outstanding warrants for one Steve or Steven Vine, of Hoboken, New Jersey. United States," he added as he closed the door and returned to his seat. "Unless, Mr Vine, you want to save us some time and just tell us whether or not you're already wanted?"

Steve Vine of Hoboken, NJ, deflated visibly. "Yeah," he admitted. "I'm wanted in France, Germany and England. Possession with intent to sell."

"You're a  _drug_ _dealer?_ _"_  the Captain cried. He passed a hand over his face, willing himself to stay calm. Now that Akass – or whatever the hell his name was – was finally talking, he didn't want to miss a thing, and he didn't want the Thompsons kicking him out until he got his answers.

"Bit of a confidence trickster, are we?" Thomson asked kindly.

"Yeah," Vine admitted. "People are so stupid. They just make it so easy. Ever since Madonna took up Kabala, there's a market for stupid new-age crap and rich people are falling over themselves to try and grab it with both hands. What the hell was I supposed to do? They kept giving me money!"

"Never mind about that now: I'm sure they deserved to be fleeced. Why don't you tell us what happened at your villa?"

Vine took a deep breath. "Look, that dead girl is nothing to do with me."

"I'm glad you mentioned her. Who is she?"

"I don't know. Oh, Christ, what a mess." He rubbed his face and sighed again. "About two years ago, right after I became Akass, Ramó Nash came to see me. Oh, this was in Paris. I was living in some fancy apartment there – I say living, but it wasn't mine and the owners didn't know I was there. Nash was part of the underground scene there.  _Last Angry Man_  turned starving artist, or something. All that bullshit." He waved his hand flippantly. "He was nervous. Strung out. He'd been smoking weed and drinking all day. He said he was sick, or whatever.

"Next thing I know, he's telling me his goddamn life story: how he killed his wife and baby back in Flanders and fled the country, like, fourteen years ago or something. It'd be more now. He said he'd been killing since then. Every so often he'd get the urge, he said, and every so often he'd indulge it. He worked with Vilary Fourcart – don't ask me how those two sick bastards met, I didn't ask because I didn't want to know. They'd pick up girls – whores and runaways mostly. Y'know, girls nobody would miss. Fourcart would rape 'em and afterwards Nash would kill 'em.

"He was a genius at killing though, I'll give him that. He'd pump them full of special k – that's ketamine to you – and dissect them while they were still alive. He was like one of those guys… You know the ones? Whadda ya call 'em? Anatomists. Like the Renaissance guys that used to cut up criminals to find out how the body worked.

"Was I shocked? Hell yeah! I mean, I was just a pusher and a con man! I couldn't heal nobody! But Nash had taken it into his head that I could. What the hell was I supposed to do?" He looked around, as though he expected an answer to his question.

"You could have told the police," Thomson replied. "Now you're guilty of aiding a murderer. That's a very serious offence."

"I couldn't do that!" Vine said with a laugh. "Are you crazy? Nash was just taking off! He'd made some little art-house, indy movie that had just taken Caans by storm. He'd painted a bunch of fakes and his friend, Jacque Monastir, had provided a bunch of certificates authenticating them. Fourcart set up some gallery viewing, claiming it was part of newly-found stash of Nazi war loot – this was when they were still in Berlin – and invited a bunch of art critics to check it out, and filmed it. Turned out that the critics didn't know shit, and thought the paintings were real. Man, those guys were  _pissed_  when that movie came out!

"So I… Look, I saw an opportunity and I took it. That's what I do, you know? Nash didn't want to go to jail: he just wanted me to heal him and take the urge to kill away. I couldn't, so I came clean to him. I told him the truth. If you'd looked up the word despair in a dictionary that day, you'd have seen Ramó Nash's face when he found that out. I felt sorry for him. We all have our little weaknesses, you know?"

"Indeed," Thomson murmured. "I'm rather fond of Marmite, myself."

"Marmite? Yuck, that's disgusting. Anyway, it was an opportunity. He could paint like the masters – he's a damn fine artist underneath all the crazy – and I could sell the paintings on for millions. Everybody was a winner!"

"Except for Nash and Fourcart's victims," the Captain spat, unable to contain himself. "Except for their  _families._ _"_

"They had no families," Vine protested. "They were nothing."

"They were  _people!_  They were young women! Blistering barnacles, man, where's your compassion? Where's your empathy?"

Vine shook his head. "They were statistics."

"They were someone's daughter, every one of them! They were somebody's  _children!_ _"_ His voiced hitched suddenly, and he had to turn away to hide the sudden sting of tears in his eyes. He blinked rapidly to clear them, trying not to think of Tintin, alone with a monster like Nash, out there somewhere.  _He_ _'_ _s_ _still_ _alive,_ _I_ _know_ _it._ _I_ _can_ _feel_ _it._

"And what happened last night, Mr Vine?" Thomson asked, shooting a warning look at the Captain.

"Tintin found out," Vine said with a shrug. "He was wandering around, poking his nose in where it wasn't wanted, and he found the paintings. I took him to Nash, who was working on his next project. You know the Alph Art? Well, they're not fakes. They're real dead women. Nash and Fourcart killed them all."

"Jesus wept!" the Captain cried. "I had one of those in my house!"

"Yeah," Vine said with a laugh. "We thought that was pretty funny! Er, no offence," he added, when he saw the Captain take a step towards him, his whole body radiating anger. "It became the final test, you know? We had no idea you even lived near by, or that you'd ever go to the gallery. We didn't plan that. But once you were there, and you bought one of the statues, we figured we'd see if it would fool you. Fool the great Tintin. And it did.

"It turns out Nash was right: we could display the bodies and nobody would ever find out. Not even Tintin guessed what they were, right? I mean, who would? Who would think they were dead bodies? That's… It's not normal. It's easier to accept that they were clever fakes. Mannequins sculpted from clay.

"It was all perfect: the Alph Art was the cover for our fraud. People were too busy looking at them to see what we were doing behind the scenes. Then Fourcart got antsy. He wanted to stop, to go to the police. Said his conscience wouldn't let him sleep no more. I had to stop him from going to Tintin – he was going to hand the story to Tintin and let him blow the whole thing wide open. I couldn't let that happen. Not now, not after I earned all that money. I didn't wanna go back to jail! Fourcart had no clue what it's like inside. There was no way I was going back."

"How did you stop him?" Thomson asked. The Captain leaned against the wall, tapping his foot impatiently as Vine opened up and told them how he'd arranged for two of his goons to kill Fourcart. More time passed, but the Captain was only half listening as he tried to figure out his next move. He'd sent a discrete text to Bianca Castafiore, asking if Nash had shown up, but she said he hadn't. She was also all right with keeping Snowy for a while – she had him now, claiming his nose would help sniff out Tintin if he was hiding on the island. The Captain got the feeling that she still thought it was all a jolly jape, and they'd find Tintin down the pub, copping off with the village bicycle. He hadn't the heart to tell her, not yet. He didn't need that Milanese nightmare hanging out of him when he had serious work to do.

First things first, was the find out whether or not Nash was still on the island. That would be easy: he'd check down at the harbour. There would be a record of anyone that took a boat out, and on the off chance that Nash had taken Tintin on the public ferry there'd be witnesses. No, chances were he'd have taken a private launch: Tintin wouldn't be one to go willingly.

 _Unless he had no choice. Ketamine was a dangerous drug…_

"…and that's when he stuck me with the needle," Vine finished, "and shot me full of special k too. After that, I don't know."

"Do you know where Nash would take him?" Thomson asked, leaning forward. "Where does he usually kill?"

"Here," Vine said with a shrug. "Back at the villa. These days, he kills purely for art, and all his stuff is set up back there. It's out of the way and the out-buildings are sound-proofed. Before that, it was all over the place. They went all over Europe. Sometimes, they took the girls from one country and brought them over the border to dump the bodies in another."

Thomson gave an exasperated sigh as he sat back. "All right," he said, "so do you know who  _any_  of Nash's victims were? Did he give you any names? What about the body we recovered from your villa this morning? Who was she?"

"Monkey number three?" Vine offered. "That was his new project: those dopey monkeys. You know the ones? See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. She was Speak No Evil. She was monkey number three."

Thomson closed his eyes and counted to ten, and the Captain could see that Vine's flippant attitude to murder was starting to get to him. The Thompsons were good men. They may not be the most graceful or eloquent men, but they were good men, and they were policemen through and through.

"I have to get out of here," the Captain said, his voice heavy with disgust. "Thundering typhoons, Akass – or whoever you are – but you make my fists itch something fierce!"

"Ok, you want a name?" Vine snapped, and the Captain drew up short, his hand hovering over the door handle. "Fine, I'll give you a name. I got a good one for you. Should be worth something, you get my drift."

"You'll have to tell us first," Thomson replied. "We'll decide whether it's a good tip or not."

"Oh, this is golden. This'll get you a promotion. You know the statue 'Mother'?" He looked at the Thompsons expectantly, who shrugged.

"No," Thomson said.

"I do," the Captain said warily. "I've seen it."

"That's Nash's wife." Vine sat back and gave them a superior smile. "She's the first one he made, all those years ago. In fact, he only did that so he could preserve her and keep her close to him. Out of all them, she's the only one he regrets killing. She was also the inspiration for Alph Art. Once he realised that she'd been perfectly preserved for so many years, he realised he'd be able to get away with it. If the bodies don't decompose over time, nobody would know they were actually dead bodies."

"The name?" Thomson urged.

"I'm getting there! The only reason I remember is because of who her family is: they're wealthy industrialists from Paris. We could never display her openly, because her father collects art and would have known her straight away. The others all came from poor families – rural areas, we think. Less chance of their families attending high-class galleries or keeping up with the latest cultural revolution."

"The name," Thomson said again.

"Madeline Gascard," Vine said with a flourish.

" _The_  Madeline Gascard?" Thomson asked, almost falling off his chair. "The eldest daughter of Filip St Clair Gascard?"

Something unpleasant clicked in the Captain's head.  _He_ _killed_ _her_ _where?_ _How_ _many_ _years_ _ago?_

"That's the one," Vine was saying. "They weren't really married or anything, her and Ramó, not really. Her father didn't want her anywhere near Ramó, so they ran away together. They fled to Belgium, to Flanders, and settled down in the middle of nowhere, where he couldn't find them. Hey, what's up with your friend there?" he asked, pointing at the Captain. "He looks like he's seen a ghost."

"Are you all right, Captain?" Thompson asked. He'd been silent this whole time, as he carefully transcribed Vine's statement.

The Captain let go of the door handle and sagged back against the wall. He could feel icy fingers of dread creeping up his back. He didn't know the St Clair Gascards of Paris, and he'd never heard of Madeline Gascard – he'd been at sea when she'd disappeared, and it was before he'd settled in Belgium – but he knew  _a_  Gascard, who was also from Flanders.

"Tintin's real name," he said slowly, "is Shane Gascard."


	17. Hope is the dream of a waking man - Aristotle

It took a while for Tintin to come back to consciousness. His head swam sickeningly and his hand shook as he reached for the glass of water. He paused before picking it up, his fingers brushing hesitantly in the soft condensation that clouded the outside of the glass. He was, he noticed, lying on top of a bed, fully clothed – although his feet were still bare, which would hamper escape. It was a small room, holding only the rusted, old iron-framed double bed, a small chest of drawers, and two bed-side tables. And, of course, the glass of water, which Tintin really,  _really_  wanted to drink.

Knowing it could be drugged – or worse – he threw caution to the wind and drank deeply. As soon as the room stopped spinning he collapsed back onto the bed, the pillow cool against his cheek. He felt awful. His eyes ached and his mouth quickly dried out again. His teeth felt dirty and unpleasant. Thinking was difficult. It was like the mother of all hangovers. This was, he supposed, how Captain Haddock felt the morning after a Good Night Out. How the man was able to function like this was nothing short of remarkable.

 _Poor_ _Captain._   _He_ _must_ _be_ _so_ _worried._

The thought slipped out, unbidden, and for a moment Tintin could have sworn that he smelled that familiar mixture of Old Spice and tobacco and smoke…

And on that thought, he slipped back into a deep sleep as the last of the chloroform wore off.

 

 **_Some hours later_ **

He lay completely still, his eyes squeezed shut. He'd woken again some time ago, but now there were noises in the room with him and he had no intention of facing anyone until he knew for sure what his plan was. He could hear someone breathing and occasionally clearing their throat softly; the scratch of first a pencil, and then a paint brush, on paper. On the few occasions that he had dared open his eyes he'd seen the back of an easel, the large canvas blocking whoever sat behind it.

It could only be one person: Ramó Nash.

"Are you still pretending to be asleep?" Nash asked suddenly. Surprised, Tintin opened his eyes. Nash was still hidden behind his easel and didn't appear to be looking at Tintin. Slowly, his head slid out from behind the canvas, his eyebrows arched in a curiously polite manner. "No? Good. How do you feel?"

"What?" Tintin asked stupidly. He shifted a little, and heard a metal clank. He'd figured out a little while ago that his left wrist was now handcuffed to the bed.

"How are you?" Nash asked politely.

"I'm… not very well, actually."

"Ah. That's a shame." Nash swirled a thin-bristled paintbrush around a jar filled with paint-mixed water, before dropping it into a second jar that held its brothers. "What's wrong?"

 _What's wrong? What the hell was right!_

"Are you being serious?" Tintin shifted, raising himself on his elbow and staring hard at the canvas Nash was currently hiding behind. "I got shot only a few days ago! I'm pretty sure these stitches have split open and it friggin'  _hurts!_  I've been kidnapped and drugged – I don't even know how many times you've drugged me, by the way – and I don't know where I am and I don't know what day this is! How many days  _has_  it been? Plus, I'm pretty sure that you're a psychopathic serial killer, and I'm now handcuffed to your bed. What part of this should be giving me hope for my future?"

"Relax: your innocence is in safe hands," Nash said dryly. "I re-bandaged your wound, too. You haven't lost that much blood, although you do have a bit of a fever."

"Am I supposed to thank you for that? Where are we? What is this place?"

"What do you think?" Nash emerged from behind the easel, holding the canvas. He flipped it over to show Tintin what he'd painted: a portrait of Tintin sleeping. "When I get bored, I draw," Nash explained with a small shrug. "And I got very bored waiting for you to wake up."

"Yeah, chloroform's a bitch that way," Tintin snapped. He glared at the portrait. It was too creepy, knowing that Nash had been watching him sleep. Or that he'd gotten close enough to him to re-dress his wound and check for a fever. Tintin liked a lot of things, but being vulnerable wasn't on that list.

"It surely is," Nash said with a sigh. He propped the painting against the wall and dragged his stool out from behind the easel. He sat on it and faced Tintin. "I'm surprised by how long you slept. I had time to take the tyres off the car."

 _There goes one mode of quick escape. Always good to know._

"I need to pee," Tintin said abruptly.

"Oh. Of course. You're probably hungry too." Nash pulled a small key out of his jeans' pocket and unlocked the handcuff around Tintin's wrist. As soon as that was done, he simply left the room. A few moments later Tintin could hear typical kitchen noises: cupboards opening and closing; things rattling; a kettle boiling.

 _Curiouser_ _and_ _curiouser_ ,  _as Alice once said._

With a groan, Tintin levered himself into a sitting position. His head swum sickeningly – chloroform hangovers were pretty bad; about a six on the Captain's Personal Hangover Scale (patent pending) – so he had to pause for a few seconds to wait for the white spots that were dancing in front of his eyes to dance away again. When he stood up his legs were shaky, and his whole left side was stiff from the aching gun-shot wound. Gritting his teeth, he limped to the open door and looked out.

Outside the door was a small hall. He was in a bungalow for sure: no stairs anywhere. To his left, at the end of the corridor, was a closed door. Directly across from him was a manky bathroom. The kitchen noises were coming from the right-hand side. Still limping, he hobbled into the bathroom to relieve himself. When he was finished, there was less noise coming from what he assumed was the kitchen, and the air had started to smell of frying bacon. His stomach growled hungrily.

Ignoring it, he went to the closed door at the end of the hall and pushed it open. It was a small room – a box room – and contained an old, white wardrobe and a child's cot, the latter of which was standing in front of a long window. He made his way over to it and, leaning over the cot, examined the window. It opened – it was very stiff and quite a lot of dried paint had shattered and flaked away, but at least it opened.

He'd need to move the cot before he could climb out thought, and even though it was old and dirty (and smelled a bit… well…  _damp_ ) it was surprisingly heavy and sturdy. It looked  _old_ -old: well-worn and well-used, and well-loved with it: the kind of thing passed down through a family, unlike the wardrobe which looked as though it had arrived flat-packed from Ikea. There was a certain type of  _quality_  with the cot.

Nash had mentioned something. Tintin dredged his memory for facts. Hadn't Nash mentioned a wife and child, or something? Could this be his –  _their_ – house? Where they now back in Belgium? It would have taken close to a day to drive from Naples to Belgium, and the chloroform could have taken another twelve or so hours… Had he been gone for so long? Oh, poor Captain. He really  _would_  be worried. He didn't deserve this.

"What are you thinking about?" Nash asked. Tintin jumped visibly: he hadn't heard the man sneak in, but when he turned Nash was standing in the doorway holding a spatula.

Tintin eyed him warily. "I was wondering where we are," he replied cautiously.

Nash shrugged. "We're home."

"We  _are_  back in Belgium, aren't we? Ha! I was right. This is your house, isn't it?" he demanded.

"It's where we came, my wife and I, to escape her family. They're bad people, Shane. Watch out for them."

Tintin blinked. "How do you know my name?"

Nash laughed softly. "I didn't know it was a matter of national security. Come on: your food is ready. We can talk later." He turned and left. Tintin watched him disappear at the other end of the corridor as he went back to the kitchen. Tintin stood for a few more seconds, his desire to flee warring with his natural curiosity and desire for answers.

His curiosity – and hunger – won in the end. Well, he was a reporter after all.

**Author's Note:**

> IGNORE ALL ATTEMPTS AT FRENCH IN THIS STORY! Especially if you can actually speak French, because I can't and apparently Google Translate ain't as translatey as I'd like it to be.


End file.
